


Get Used to It

by fourteencandles (thingsbaker)



Series: Here's Us Together [6]
Category: Entourage
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Parent(s), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsbaker/pseuds/fourteencandles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric thought there would be a grace period, a time after coming out where they still sort of stuck to the old habits. </p><p>He was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal in 2008. No spoilers past Season 1. Thanks to shoshannagold for the readthrough.

Eric thought there would be a grace period, a time after coming out where they still sort of stuck to the old habits. They spent the last year playing it safe, after all — and, some might argue, many years before that — and so he thought that at least for a while, after the Golden Globes, when they went out the old rules would still apply.  
  
He was wrong.  
  
Suddenly, Vince wants to touch. It’s like switch was flipped, like all that’s been keeping him from touching Eric has been the press. Now that they know, Vince puts his arm around Eric in the car; he kisses his temple when he makes a good point in Ari’s office; and he grabs his hand across the table at dinner, with the other guys sitting there staring at them like they’re nuts.  
  
“What?” Vince says. “Like you guys haven’t seen us get it on.”  
  
But somehow this feels way weirder than the nights when they’d get sleepy or drunk or both and let their guards down by the pool or on the couch at home. Vince sitting with him in the backseat of the Escalade suddenly makes Eric feel a little uncomfortable, because, well, there are  _people_  around. People with cameras, and Web sites. People willing to splash them across the fronts of the tabloids and the weeklies like his mother used to read. People who suddenly know more than only Vince’s name.  
  
“Eric! Eric!” The paparazzi yell his name from the other side of their gate at home, trying to get him to turn or wave. It’s like they think if they pester him enough, he’ll get fed up and jump Vince in public. He ducks into the backseat instead, happy to let Turtle drive so that he can duck low and turn his back on the tinted windows.  
  
“Wanna make out?” Vince asks, winking, but he keeps his back turned on the window, too. He’s been pretty casual about the escalation of attention, but he’s also following Shauna’s directives. They’ve been told not to talk to the press, they’ve been told to lay low for a while, and they’re taking the orders seriously. Eric’s pretty sure this is because Vince finds Shauna kind of scary — which Eric agrees with, since he’s the one who had to deal with her angry phone call after the Globes. (They will never again forget to tell her before they come out to millions of people at once). He’s glad Shauna laid down the law about PDA, up to and including making Eric stay home from the Oscars, because Eric’s not really ready to be parading around town on Vince’s arm. He’s also not really ready to tell Vince that. Vince is so happy about the whole thing that Eric can’t burst his bubble yet with the difficult realities that still face them.  
  
Which, sure, there are difficulties. Vince didn’t win the Oscar, although he was heavily favored going in. No one can really blame that on the coming out speech, because most Academy votes were cast before that, but that hasn’t stopped the speculation. His next movie doesn’t release until July 4; they’re supposed to be working on the publicity campaign right now, but it’s suddenly gotten kind of touchy. Cameron doesn’t care about their relationship, but Cameron isn’t running the show: the studio is. And communication with the studio isn’t going so well, either, possibly because Eric hung up before a scheduled conference call when the receptionist said, “Wait, you’re the boyfriend?” when he gave his name. (He called back, but wasn’t really in the mood to compromise after that).  
  
The good news is that most of the people they know have been pretty supportive and kind about the whole thing (they even got a nice card from Sloan after the Globes). And professionally, there are some bright spots, too: They were already signed to another movie before the announcement, because Ari was paranoid — maybe, Eric’s willing to admit, rightfully paranoid — about whether Vince would be able to find work after they came out. Vince is scheduled to start production on David Fincher’s new boxing movie in about six weeks, and Eric has to admit he’s looking forward to getting back into the swing of filming, when he’ll be worrying mostly about work and not, well, life.  
  
So now they’re on the way to MGA. Ari’s been negotiating some other projects, and they’ve been summoned. Vince is absorbed in discussing last night’s Lakers game with Turtle and Drama, so Eric doesn’t even have to worry about wandering hands on the drive, and he can just relax and pretend it’s any other day. After spending most of the last two weeks at home, Eric doesn’t mind getting out of the house, even if it’s just to see Ari.   
  
But Ari isn’t himself. There’s none of the usual yelling or groaning or mocking as they walk in. Or, well, he looks like he wants to yell and mock, but — he also seems kind of puny. He’s sweating, and he doesn’t stand up when they come in. “Are you OK?” Vince asks, taking a seat close to Eric on the couch.  
  
“I’d be better if you would put at least sixteen more inches between you and my main midget there,” Ari says. He rubs his forehead, wipes his hand on his sleeve.  
  
“Seriously, you look like death,” Eric says, shifting away from Vince.  
  
“My kids have the flu,” Ari says, “and I just saw the returns on the new Shyamalan movie. Christ. It’s not even a surprise ending anymore to know it’s gonna flop. But I’m fine, I’ve had like eight different kinds of preventative shots, I could survive the plague. Let’s talk about you.”  
  
Eric notices Ari doesn’t get up from his desk. “What is it you want to talk about, Ari? You get everything nailed down with Fincher?”  
  
“Start date might get pushed back, but the training’s all worked out,” Ari says. Vince will have to start hitting the gym this summer to get into fighting shape, and there’s been a debate about where and when and by whom Vince should be trained. Now, Ari explains that they’ve agreed on a course through the guys at the Boxing Academy, which is what Vince and Eric have been advocating from the start. They already know some of the trainers there from prep for _Queens Boulevard_.   
  
“All right, that sounds good,” Eric says. “I can get that scheduled.”  
  
“Good, do that.” Ari pauses and clears his throat, takes a small sip from a bottle of water. Eric meets Vince’s eye, nods at what he can tell he’s thinking: guy’s totally sick. Eric would feel bad for Ari, except the nicest thing he’s heard from him in the last two weeks was a text message he got two days ago at 2 a.m.:  _I hope you’re getting good and fucked like the rest of us_.  
  
“So, what else, Ari? You just called us here for that?” Eric asks.  
  
“You talk to Shauna yet?”  
  
“Yeah,” Vince says, shortly. “We’re not doing it.”  
  
 _Rolling Stone_  offered them the cover, if they’d let a reporter and a photographer follow them around for a week. Eric probably owes Shauna some flowers or something; his response to that suggestion was a little vulgar. But Jesus fucking Christ, he’s got enough of a photographer entourage already, he doesn’t need someone who thinks he’s got rights following him around.  
  
“Yeah? You like being followed by the amateur squad, better?”  
  
Eric crosses his arms. “His personal life — our personal life — that’s not a story, Ari.”  
  
Ari shakes his head minutely. “Right. Not a story, like Hiroshima wasn’t a story. Sure.”  
  
“You brought us in to say you think we should let some weirdo reporter —”  
  
“No,” he says, “I figured that was a no go. But still, we need to do something. Control the story. We need to do something big.”  
  
“Like a distraction?”  
  
Ari laughs, a pathetic coughing laugh, but still a laugh. “There’s no way to distract from this,” he says, pointing between the two of them, “unless one of you knocks up Jessica Biel. No. We need to do something big and bold to show that, yeah, this is happening but it doesn’t mean anything.”  
  
“Hey -”  
  
“For your career,” he says.   
  
“So what are you proposing?” Eric asks, feeling uneasy.  
  
Ari wants Vince to do a music video. “One day on set,” he says, talking mostly at Eric, “and it does two things: it reminds fourteen year old girls how hot your boyfriend is, and it reminds the media that, hey, this guy is a fucking star, he’s got the fucking look and the fucking performance and the fucking range. And it will give them something to talk about other than the announcement and the big motherfucking movie.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t we want them talking about the movie?”  
  
Ari frowns. “Listen. There’s gonna be a lot of expectation around Nightfeeders anyway. It needs to open big because it cost a lot. If it doesn’t, if it’s off by a dollar from the expectations — then anything we can put between you and the blame for that opening, that’s a plus for us.”  
  
Vince sighs. “You really think people aren’t going to see that movie because I’m with E?”  
  
“People do things for all kinds of stupid reasons. My brother-in-law won’t watch NBC because he thinks the Today show was too hard on Stephen Tyler in an interview in the 90s. The point is, if the movie falls short, we need to buy you some insurance. We need you to have something at the top of the charts between then and now so that we can say, hey, wasn’t our fault. And unless you can make a blockbuster movie in the next two weeks or so…”  
  
“He’s got a fucking Golden Globe, Ari. I thought that meant TV’s out.”  
  
“Adrian Brody got an Oscar and did a fucking Diet Coke commercial with it,” Ari says. “You wanna do that? Because right now, I’m not even sure we could get them on the phone.”  
  
Eric scoffs, but Vince leans forward. “A video for who?”  
  
Ari outlines the whole plan. David LeDell is directing a video for Kanye’s new album. “Not much storyline, lots of fighting and different colorscapes and looking mad at the world.”  
  
“LeDell, huh?” Vince looks over. Eric gets a tumbling feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t want Vince to do this. He doesn’t want Vince to admit he might need to do this. “Can I meet with him?”  
  
“He’s in Canada for the next week, but I can set up a call,” Ari says.  
  
Vince nods. “Do it. All right.”  
  
“Wait,” Eric says, and Vince glances over. “Can we at least see a script?”  
  
Ari rolls his eyes, and Eric can tell that’s made him dizzy because then he covers his face. “Fine, fine, fine. Fax tomorrow. Get out of my office now.”  
  
“Good to see you, too, Ari,” Vince says, and claps his shoulder on the way out. “Lloyd, you ought to send him home.”  
  
“Would that I had the power,” Lloyd mutters. They hear Ari bellow Lloyd’s name, and Eric shakes his head.  
  
“Good luck, man,” Eric says, and Lloyd says thanks before he darts in. Lloyd’s actually been extremely nice to both of them since the Globes, so nice Eric’s a little freaked out. But he doesn’t say anything, because Vince is delighted by it. Vince, who puts an arm around Eric’s shoulders on the way to the elevator, is delighted by everything.  
  
“Let’s get a coffee,” Vince says in the elevator. “Guys? Coffee?”  
  
“Sure, yeah,” Turtle says.  
  
Drama straightens his hair. “Sounds good. Coffee Spot?”  
  
Eric barely keeps himself from groaning. The Coffee Spot has huge windows out front, all the better for Drama to be seen through. All the better for them  _all_  to be seen through. But he doesn’t say anything, just nods when Vince turns toward him, because this is how it’s supposed to be. They’re just going on with their lives.  
  
“Turtle, you got a joint on you?” Vince asks as they climb into the suburban.  
  
“Please don’t get your picture taken smoking up,” Eric says. He doesn’t want Vince getting stoned; they still need to talk about this video.  
  
“I got something even better,” Turtle says, and he passes back what looks like a plastic cigarette. Eric’s seen this before — it’s one of his “stealth pipes,” part of his growing collection of pot paraphernalia. “Just light the end, works like a charm.”  
  
“Vin,” Eric says, “seriously.”  
  
Vince grins. “It’s not for me.” He rubs Eric’s neck and passes the fake cigarette over. “Ari always gets to you.”  
  
“I’m not getting stoned in the middle of the morning,” Eric says.  
  
“Well, you’re so goddamned tense you’re making me nervous, so it’s either the weed or I blow you right now.”  
  
“The weed,” Eric and Turtle say together, and Vince grins and reaches for the lighter.  
  
Eric lets Vince light it and takes a long hit. The smoke burns a little, curls in his lungs, and Eric holds, holds, holds a little too long, exhales with a cough. Vince laughs, slides his hand under Eric’s chin, and kisses him.  
  
“Knock that off,” Eric says, half-joking, and ducks his head to toke again. The pot is pretty mellow — what in New York they used to call plain old  _kind_  bud — and by the time they get to the Coffee Spot Eric’s feeling it a bit. Vince’s hand on his shoulder is no longer annoying; it’s warm and kind of welcome, and he smiles across at him before they get out. Talking about the video can wait. He’ll see the script, after all. Things will work out.  
  
“Feel better?” Vince asks, one hand landing on his biceps as they walk in.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Eric says, his hands in his pockets, because the paparazzi love to get shots of his ring. The place isn’t too full, and he didn’t notice any cameras outside. He smiles up at Vince. “Go get a table,” he says. “I’ll be over in a second.”  
  
Vince gets a booth in the corner. The barista makes Vince’s drink first — soy latte with caramel — and Turtle takes his drink and Vince’s to the table while Eric figures out what he wants. A latte, he decides, and, because the pot left a funny taste in his mouth, he wants some kind of flavor in it. Vanilla, maybe. He also wants it decaf, because the guys have this ongoing video golf drinking game that Eric keeps getting drawn into playing, and he knows he’ll get pushed into doing a few Red Bull Max-vodka shots tonight. Last time he did that after a double espresso his heart nearly beat out of his chest. He thought he was dying; he had to go lay down. So he orders the drink — “Decaf medium vanilla latte” — and at the last minute he adds a muffin, because they’re out of the danishes he likes but he’s hungry and lunch is a couple of hours away.  
  
“Oh, those are so good with the mocha we have on special,” the girl says, and Eric thinks, why not, and changes his order. Decaf medium mocha special. Fine. The girl says, “That’s totally my favorite,” in a gushy girly way that makes Eric laugh a little. Maybe she doesn’t read  _US Weekly_  or  _People_ ; maybe she doesn’t know about him and Vince. Eric gives her a fifty-percent tip and says thanks, and then he moves over to let Drama order. The place is pretty full, and Vince got a booth near the back. Eric wonders if he’s being good or if it’s just coincidence, and decides he doesn’t care. It’s fine, he thinks, fine. Mellow. Fine.  
  
Drama cashes out and joins him at the end of the counter, just as the barista, not the counter-girl but an older guy, bellows out, “Decaf raspberry kiss mochaccino with extra whip!” and slides a drink across the counter that looks like a volcano, a frozen reddish-brown concoction in a plastic cup with a huge mound of whipped cream on top, drizzled with chocolate and red raspberry sauce, a little stick of chocolate on the side. The straw is hot pink.  
  
Drama snickers. “Jesus, what’d you get, the grande fag latte?” He says it just loud enough that a couple of people nearby turn and look.  
  
Eric says, “Fuck you, Drama,” his buzz totally ruined, and takes the drink and the muffin to the table, trying to spread his hand out around the cup in case the cameras have their zooms focused. He avoids the pink straw altogether.  
  
Vince grins at him. “That looks good,” he says, and steals some of the whipped cream off the top, and it shouldn’t work, but Eric feels better. Vince smiles at him and he feels better right away. The buzz is back.  
  
Drama sits down and elbows Turtle, and they both start ogling some girl over on the other side of the café that he thinks is giving him the eye, and Eric lets his anger from earlier drop. Just Drama being Drama, he tells himself, watching Vince lick whipped cream off his lip. Fuck, totally hot. He realizes he’s staring, and laughs a little.  
  
Vince ducks and whispers, “You’re adorable when you’re stoned,” and Eric laughs again and draws back. Vince’s hand is on his leg under the table, and Eric doesn’t push him away. Just living their lives. “You know what we ought to do? We ought to have an old-fashioned guys night tomorrow. You think?”  
  
“Fuck yeah,” Turtle says.  
  
“You really wanna go out?” Eric says. He’s not sure there’s enough weed in the world for him to brave a club right now.  
  
Vince shakes his head. “I was thinking pizza, movies, pot, beer. Just like old times.”  
  
“Only with way better herb,” Turtle says. “I’m in.”  
  
Eric agrees, but Drama says, “How about, instead of pizza, I do some grilling.”  
  
“Sounds great,” Vince says.  
  
“One condition, though. You guys gotta help me prep for my audition. Lloyd had some very promising things to say today.”  
  
Eric shares a grin with Turtle. He knows better than to look at Vince when he wants to make fun of Drama. “What’s it for, Drama?”  
  
“A new FX series,” he says. “Called ‘The Courier.’”  
  
“We’ll help, Johnny, of course,” Vince says, and Eric even chimes in, too. Anything to keep them all happy and home, right now; anything to keep them from needing to go out and face the cameras.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next day, when the faxed script doesn’t show up, Eric calls Ari’s office but only gets Lloyd. “I’ll send it right now,” he says.  
  
“He’s pretty sick?” Eric says.  
  
“Deathly ill,” Lloyd gushes. “I’ve never really seen anyone turn that shade of green before. Of course he thinks he’s been poisoned by CAA or IGM or Terrence or something. I might be able to get you a call if you needed to —”  
  
“That’s all right, Lloyd,” Eric says. “We’ll just wait. Tell him to call when he can.” He promises to read the script that afternoon, but moves it down on his priority list. Maybe Ari being sick will mean they never have to make a decision on the video; maybe it will just drop off the radar, and they can hang out at home, instead.  
  
That night, Drama comes over with a pile of food and script copies for all of them, and then he burns the burgers because he’s too busy reading to pay attention to his cooking.  
  
“It’d be such a good deal for him,” Vince says, sitting on the end of Eric’s lounge chair. Eric shifts his empty plate — he ate the hamburgers anyway, to be a good sport — to the ground, and Vince leans back against his chest. It shouldn’t work; Vince is a lot taller than Eric. But he slouches and somehow fits back against Eric, his neck at Eric’s shoulder, his back to Eric’s chest, his hands snagged around Eric’s bent knees. He tilts his head to the side a little and looks up at Eric.  
  
“He’s gonna be a hit,” Eric agrees, and Vince smiles. He’s so truly, genuinely happy for Drama that Eric has to smile back. He kisses Vince and Vince touches his cheek.  
  
“Yo, it’s  _guys’ night_ ,” Turtle yells from the house, and Vince laughs and settles back against Eric, hands at his sides, resting on the outside of Eric’s thighs.  
  
On guys’ nights, the rule is, as it always has been, that no one gets to bring a date. Eric doesn’t mind playing along, because he gets how it can be a little weird for the other guys. He and Vince were always sort of a team, but now they’re explicitly a team, and it can make things difficult when they get to talking and joking around. Turtle’s only recently stopped glancing guiltily over at Eric every time he makes a joke about Vince’s old sex life.  
  
Turtle walks out onto the deck, Drama following, and they pause at the edge of the deck to light the joint.   
  
“Do I really have to move?” Vince asks.  
  
Drama exhales a thin stream of smoke. “Whatever, bro,” he says, and drops into another lounge chair.  
  
Turtle takes a seat of his own, shaking his head as he passes the joint over. Eric takes a hit before passing it to Vince, and he turns his head to blow the smoke away from him. Vince passes the joint back, instead of on, so Eric hits again. “I knew guys’ night would get fucked up once you guys got all married and boring and shit,” Turtle says.  
  
Vince laughs and Eric can feel it. He hands the joint back to Turtle and rests his head against Vince’s, slides his arms around Vince’s chest. He’s had a few beers and now a little pot; he’s not exactly drunk or stoned, but he’s on the way, and he’s feeling really very comfortable.   
  
“Did you know we’re boring?” Vince says, turning a little.  
  
“I didn’t even know we were married,” Eric murmurs against his neck.  
  
Drama cuts himself off at midnight — the audition is the next day — but the other three finish all of the beer in the house and move on to a bong. By two, when they crawl into bed, Eric’s laughing at just about everything, even when Vince picks him up, arms around his waist, and carry-drags him over the threshold of their bedroom before dropping him on the bed. “I now pronounce us man and other man,” Vince says, flopping onto the bed next to Eric.  
  
“Who kisses who?”  
  
Vince yawns. “In a minute,” he says, and when Eric looks up, his eyes are closed. He laughs, again, and then settles back against Vince.  
  
“I do,” he mutters, and falls asleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
They all wake up too late to see Drama off for his interview, but Vince calls and catches him on his way home, and at Eric’s suggestion tells him to come over for dinner so they can hear all about it.  
  
Drama says it all went fine, he even knew the casting agent and has worked with one of the producers before, “and she showed a real interest in me, as an actor, you know, not just some auditioning hack.” He raises his eyebrows. “She said it looked good, looked real promising.”  
  
Eric’s already guessing that’s a non-starter, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him. “Good work, Drama,” he says. “Let’s break out some champagne, you think?” Vince beams at him and drops his hand onto Eric’s leg under the table. Eric smiles. Turns out it’s the same with girls and guys: being nice to the in-laws always gets you major points.  
  
The next day, Eric reads the video script. He still hates the idea, and now he actually hates the video: it calls for Vince to play a weird, pseudo-Italian gangster, running around picking fights over some girl. Real college-filmmaker five-dollar-budget bullshit. Faux-Godfather crap. He thinks about calling Ari, but decides to reserve that argument until Vince has read it. Instead, he wanders out to the pool. Vince is napping, Turtle’s playing video games, Drama’s not around, and Eric is really getting bored with hanging around doing nothing. When his phone rings, he’s a little excited to see Ari’s number. “What’s up, I thought you were sick?”  
  
“It’s Lloyd.”   
  
“Hey, Lloyd. What’s going on? Ari need something?”  
  
“I’m actually calling about Johnny Drama.”  
  
“Yeah? Uh, he’s not here, but he should have his phone —”  
  
“I needed to talk to you.” There’s a pause, and Eric gets the feeling something bad is coming. “You know he had that audition for the Courier pilot? Well, we heard back, and they want him.”  
  
“Really?” Eric’s pretty surprised to hear it went well. Eric’s also surprised that Lloyd’s telling him, instead of Drama. “That’s great, Lloyd, but, uh, why are you telling me?”  
  
“Because — they want him with a condition.”  
  
“What’s the condition?”  
  
“They want Vince to guest star next season.”  
  
“Oh.” Eric rubs his forehead. That’s not a good proposition. “Just one show?”  
  
“She’s talking about an arc,” Lloyd says. “Maybe as the leading lady’s old love interest. It sounds very exciting, it could be a really juicy role.”  
  
“Uh-huh. What’s Ari say?”  
  
“I can’t get him on the phone,” Lloyd admits. “I think they took his cell away when he got to the hospital.”  
  
“Jesus Christ! He’s in the hospital?”  
  
“It’s just for fluids,” Lloyd says. “And also, I think he may have gotten a little belligerent with Mrs. Ari yesterday, and this may be his punishment.”  
  
Eric looks up at the house. He can’t really guess what Vince will say about this. Usually, he’s opposed to TV — they both see it as a step backward, particularly now that he’s got his Globe. But it’s his brother, and Vince is funny about Drama sometimes. And he was distressingly eager about the video. Eric sighs. “Can I get back to you about it, Lloyd?”  
  
“Yes, certainly, only they want to know tomorrow morning.”  
  
“Just lemme talk it over with Vince,” Eric says, “and I’ll get back to you.”  
  
Lloyd says good-bye cheerfully, and Eric closes his phone and looks back at the house. He thinks about trying to track Ari down on his own, because he can predict what Ari’s response would be: no fucking way. Eric knows the arguments, too. Signing up for a television stint at any time would be risky, might somehow devalue Vince’s name. Now, just after coming out, when everything is so shaky and uncertain anyway, committing to a basic cable television series — a new series, at that — sounds like desperation. Particularly if they’re going ahead with the stupid video. No way Ari would be in favor of this show. No way Vince should do it.  
  
Eric makes a note in his Palm Pilot to give Lloyd a call back in the morning. He’ll make it look like they thought it over, at least, before he breaks the news.  
  


* * *

  
  
A week later, Vince is in boxing training and Ari’s back at work and leaving Eric messages that are as mean as ever. Eric dodges most of them, but doesn’t miss the fact that the video is probably, now, inevitable. Vince talked to LeDell and liked his vision for the project, and Kanye’s totally on board. Eric doesn’t have a good argument for Vince not doing it, since Ari’s so gung-ho, beyond a vague feeling that it’s going to be a bad thing. He’s worried that the bad feeling is just that he’s not ready to be on set with Vince while he’s making out with some model, and that’s certainly not reason enough to stop him from doing it. So he lets Ari schedule filming for the next weekend, and he tries not to think about it too much. Vince, who picks up on his tension, suggests a trip to Burke Williams.  
  
“C’mon,” he says, getting dressed after a trip to the gym. “Nice little massage.”  
  
Eric nods, his eyes on Vince’s muscled stomach until his shirt slides down. “I guess it’s better than getting stoned again.”  
  
So they go to Burke Williams for an afternoon. Vince treats everybody to a deep-tissue massage, even Turtle, who always sort of whines about it but eventually likes it (Eric knows this because his pot intake usually decreases dramatically for the following day or two). Eric and Vince go first, in separate rooms, and afterwards, as always, Eric feels sore and tired, and he suggests they hit the new hot baths before they leave. Vince is game and tells the other guys as they’re heading in for their sessions.  
  
“Just don’t let us catch you in the middle of anything,” Drama says, and Eric rolls his eyes.  
  
Vince hands his robe to the attendant and sinks into the water, and Eric does the same, though with a little more self-consciousness. The whole room smells like eucalyptus and steam and the bath is like 90 degrees and feels fucking wonderful. Each bath is about 15 feet long, rectangular, big enough for six guys to sit around comfortably without touching, though they have this one to themselves. Vince is sitting on the bench at the far end, up to about his shoulders in the water, his arms stretched out across the back, his eyes closed. Eric takes a seat a few feet away, on the perpendicular bench, not touching Vince at all, though he can’t help looking at him. His hair is getting slick with the steam and probably sweat, and his face is a little red from the heat and his earlier facial, but he still looks fucking gorgeous. Eric tilts back and closes his own eyes, afraid the attendant will walk in and catch him staring.   
  
The water is really relaxing, the heat of it somehow matching the heat from his sore muscles. He rubs his hands up and down his arms, slowly, not really rubbing but just enjoying the feel of his hands sliding through the water. If someone had told him ten years ago that he’d enjoy a spa day, Eric would’ve laughed in the guy’s face — no, he probably would’ve punched the guy, because words like “spa” and “massage parlor” back in their neighborhood were all code words for “pussy” and “fag.” He still feels a little weird about how much he likes this stuff, the massages and the bath treatments and the simple things like the soft robes and nice slipper-sandals they loan out, but Vince takes it all in stride so Eric tries to, too. Sometimes he thinks about how much it would’ve tickled his mother to try any of this stuff. He wishes he could’ve gotten her out here more often.  
  
He hears Vince murmur something. “What’s that?” he asks, sitting up a little, opening his eyes.  
  
“Hold still,” Vince says. He rolls his head to the side and looks at Eric, smirking. “You’re making waves.”  
  
“Ruining your zen?” Eric asks, knowing Vince isn’t really serious.  
  
“I’m so relaxed I’m practically unconscious,” Vince says. “Why don’t we do this every day?”  
  
“Because we’d look like prunes,” Eric says. “Prunes with noodles instead of bones.”  
  
“There’s a nice image.” Vince is still turned to look at him, and Eric matches his posture, resting his cheek on his own arm. The water is a little cloudy from the salt or whatever they add to it, and when Vince’s foot treads on Eric’s under the water, he doesn’t move, just lets it happen. In fact, he scoots a little closer. He knows Vince won’t try anything, not just because they could be seen but because the massage usually wipes them both out, physically. He also knows that Vince just likes to be touched, so he lets their feet tangle together, lets Vince rub the soft instep of his foot up and down over Eric’s ankle idly while he holds his gaze.  
  
“The Clippers play tonight,” Vince says.  
  
“Mm. You wanna go?”  
  
“Not at all. You?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“What d’you wanna do?”  
  
“I don’t care,” Eric says. “Hang out.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Fuck, Vince is hot, Eric thinks, but it’s a lazy thought, no intention behind it right now. He likes quiet moments like this, too, and wonders what that says about him. Tries to believe it just says that he’s got a good thing going. He smiles at Vince, and Vince smiles back, like he knows exactly what Eric’s thinking.  
  
“OK, E,” Drama says, “back away from my brother’s cock.”  
  
Eric winces as Drama’s voice echoes off the walls. He turns and watches Drama strut in, and under the water, Vince’s foot goes still.   
  
“Johnny, I thought you had an hour booked,” he says.  
  
“Guy wouldn’t go hard enough,” he says. “Made me ticklish.” He unbelts his robe and turns. “Avert your eyes, E. I’m not getting in if you’re sporting wood.”  
  
“Jesus Christ, Drama,” Eric starts, and Vince’s hand drops onto his shoulder.  
  
“Don’t get all tense again,” he says, his voice low and soothing, and Eric nods. He settles his head back, closes his eyes, but the atmosphere has changed. His neck hurts, now, and his arms. The water level raises as Drama takes his seat, and where the waves lap Eric feels cold, suddenly, no longer blissfully warm and soothed.   
  
By the time Turtle joins, he’s hunched forward, rubbing his wrist with one hand to keep it from cramping up. Vince still looks perfectly peaceful, and he’s a little spaced out as they walk to the locker room to change. Eric grabs a cool shower, towels off and walks back into the locker room in his shorts to get dressed. Turtle and Drama are lacing their shoes at the other end, and Vince is lying back on the bench, dressed again but his hair still damp, his eyes closed, his arms and legs hanging loose.  
  
When Eric sits to put on his shoes, Vince tips his head back and looks at him upside down. “You all right?”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
Vince smiles at him. “You wanna carry me out of here?” he asks, and Eric snorts.  
  
“Sore as I am, I don’t think that’d go so well.”  
  
“Aww, poor E’s all sore,” Drama says, his hands descending suddenly onto Eric’s shoulders. “But you know what I always say about that.”  
  
“What’s that?” Eric asks, staring straight ahead, his shoulders already protesting.  
  
“If they can walk the next day, you haven’t done it right.” He and Turtle crack up, and Vince rolls his eyes at Eric.  
  
“From the massage, dickhead,” Eric says, getting to his feet.  
  
Vince stands up, too, and his hands rest on Eric’s shoulders. Unlike Drama’s touch, this is welcome; Vince is gentle. It should take more than this to calm him down, but it works. It helps. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. You’ll feel better after we eat.”  
  
“Yeah, all right,” Eric says. Drama’s already up ahead talking to Turtle about their next trip, how he’s going to get a hot stone massage, and Eric makes himself take a deep breath. It’s just Drama being Drama, Drama joking around like always. He probably doesn’t even get that he’s being a dick.


	2. Chapter 2

That weekend, they film the video on a lot at Paramount. They’re on set forever. The filming doesn’t take much costuming or make-up, at least; it’s mostly just supposed to be Vince climbing in and out of expensive cars, a flashy model in a skimpy dress on his arm, then Vince alone sitting in a dark leather booth, and then, finally, silently confronting some guy over a pool table. They film the make-out scenes — which have moved to the backseat of the limo — just before their lunch break at 9 p.m., and then Vince comes back to the trailer and sits on the floor in front of the couch, leans back against Eric’s legs. “You OK?” Eric asks.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Vince says. Eric rubs his shoulders, because he can’t touch his hair, not while he’s filming. Vince rests his cheek on Eric’s knee, and Eric doesn’t mention that he’s messing up his makeup. Instead, he bends his own on-set rules and kisses Vince’s neck, and Vince smiles with his eyes closed.   
  
“Pretty fucking tired, huh?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“You want me to go yell at LaDell? Get him to get you out of here faster?”  
  
“Somehow I don’t think siccing my manager on him is gonna speed things up.”  
  
“Yeah? What about your jealous boyfriend?”  
  
One eye opens. “You’re jealous of LaDell?”  
  
“I’m jealous anytime anything’s keeping you out of my bed at this time of night,” Eric says, but he smiles to let Vince know he’s just kidding. Vince’s eyes drift closed again.  
  
They eventually get off set near 3 a.m. Vince falls asleep on the drive home, and stirs just long enough for Eric to get him into bed. He has no idea what the end product will be for the video; the scenes he watched were all too short for him to piece together, and they didn’t see any of the B-story, with Kanye being filmed. Whatever, Eric figures, sliding into bed beside Vince; it’s out of his hands, now.  
  


* * *

  
  
Sunday morning, Eric sleeps in because he was up way too late the night before trading e-mails with Cameron’s new (non-Emily) assistant, who’s on Singapore time. They’re still talking about little editing tweaks that Cameron's making, nothing major, but Eric wants to know everything, since they won't get a chance to see the film before it premieres. It’s just got to be good.   
  
He finds the guys in the kitchen, eating pancakes. He takes a seat next to Vince and across from Turtle, who pushes an advance copy of People across the table at him. The headline reads, Vincent Chase: In Love!   
  
“Shauna sent that over,” Vince says.  
  
Eric shrugs. Vince was on the cover of every entertainment magazine after the Globes. Most of them ran this same photo, of Vince hefting his Golden Globe at the end of his coming out speech, or one like it, and most of them had stupid stories drawn only from Vince’s speech and the guesses of a bunch of Hollywood psychos.   
  
Turtle taps the corner of the magazine, and Eric realizes there’s another photo: to the side, in a heart-shaped bubble, there’s a little cut-out picture of the two them at the Cannes premiere of Medellin. It’s not a bad picture of him, really — he’s wearing a suit and his hair’s OK, and he’s smiling and standing next to Vince, not touching him. Honestly, at that moment, he probably wasn’t even thinking about touching him, because he’s pretty sure that Billy’s cut out of the photo right next to him.  
  
“Baby’s first cover!” Turtle crows, and Vince laughs.  
  
“It’s a stupid picture,” Eric says, shrugging. “I mean, we weren’t even together then.”  
  
“Well it’s not like you’re giving them any new material,” Drama says.   
  
“Just wait,” Vince says with an evil grin, and Eric rolls his eyes.  
  
“Jesus, don’t they have other news?” He snags Vince’s orange juice and takes a sip. “I wish Britney would burn down her house or something so they’d move on.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Turtle says. “You know there were a dozen paparazzi outside yesterday when we left for MGA? Ten bucks says they pitch a tent outside soon.”  
  
“Twenty says they storm the gate.”  
  
“We could call security again,” Vince says, shrugging. That was kind of entertaining last week, siccing their poor security company on the mob outside, but it didn’t really get them anywhere. So long as the photographers are in the street and not blocking traffic, they can, apparently, do whatever they want. It pisses Eric off to no end. Vince should’ve bought a place in a gated community.  
  
“Or we could try a different tactic, and just give them what they want,” Drama says. “All they’re asking is some pics, bro. Just walk outside and wave. I’ll go with you.”  
  
“That’s not really what they’re after,” Vince says. He looks across at Eric. “You wanna go make out on the driveway?”  
  
Eric flips him off and gets up to grab a bagel. While he’s messing with the toaster, Turtle says, “All I know is, now I gotta get my own place.” Eric glances over, not sure how to take this, and Turtle shrugs. “I mean, we’re cool, I’m totally cool with you guys, but being the guy living with the two gay guys isn’t exactly helping me out with the ladies, you know?”  
  
Vince laughs. “Good point, I guess. You want to go look at places today?”  
  
“Where do you think you’re going?” Eric asks.   
  
“What, I can’t leave the house at all now?”  
  
Eric leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “You think it’s gonna look real great if you’re out looking for a pad with some other guy?”  
  
“Oh, jealous E,” Drama says. “There’s a guy we haven’t seen in a while. Watch out, Turtle.”  
  
“It’s cool, Vin,” Turtle says. “I figured I’d just look online anyway, see what I can find.”  
  
“Or, the place next to mine is opening up,” Drama says. “That old lady kicked last month, it’s supposed to be up for sale real soon.”  
  
“Drama, I can’t afford your building,” Turtle says.  
  
“But I can,” Vince offers, and Eric decides not to point out the financial stupidity of buying a million-dollar condo for a friend, because he’s pretty sure arguing will make Vince want to do it more. Besides, he has to admit, he’s ready to get Turtle out of the house, too.  
  
It’s a little amazing, really: not so long ago, not even the guys knew they were together, and now Eric’s thinking — Eric’s already planning — for a time when he and Vince will have the house to themselves, when they’ll be living together, as partners, with the whole world knowing it. Jesus, things have happened kind of fast, he thinks, and turns back to monitor his toast. His life, a year ago, looked a lot different than it does today — a year ago, he was with Vince, sure, but not out, not even thinking of being out. The only people who knew were Turtle and Drama. Not even his mother had any idea — she’d still been after him to get a girlfriend, settle down, get her some grandchildren. She’d be pretty surprised now, if she were still alive, Eric thinks. He slides his toast onto a plate, but it suddenly doesn’t look that appetizing; he offers it, instead, to Vince.  
  
While Turtle and Vince work out some complex partial payment plan (Eric also doesn’t comment that Turtle’s salary comes completely out of Vince’s pocket anyway), Eric goes back to take a shower. After he’s cleaned up, he picks a script up from the pile sitting by his desk and pages through it. Ari sent over a pile of stuff earlier in the week, most of it crap. It’s supposed to prove to Eric that he and Vince have made a colossal mistake in getting together and coming out. Eric is determined to find a gem, if for no other reason than he really, really needs to believe that Ari is wrong about this, that Vince coming out at the Globes isn’t going to mean the end of his career, just when things were starting to go so well.  
  
This script, however, is not the one. He puts it down about halfway through, then follows the noise of the television to the living room. Drama and Turtle are watching ESPN, rooting for Miami. He falls into an armchair and yawns, then asks where Vince is.  
  
“Went for a walk on the beach with Arnold,” Turtle says.  
  
“And you guys didn’t go?”  
  
“It’s windy,” Drama says. “You know what kind of effort it takes to get sand out of this hair?”  
  
Eric nods. He yawns again and slouches in the chair. Fuck, he’s tired. He could use a nap. “How long’s he been gone?”  
  
“Twenty minutes, maybe,” Turtle says. “Where’ve you been, anyway? It’s almost lunchtime.”  
  
“Whacking off to Queens Boulevard again?” Drama suggests, and Eric groans.  
  
“What’s your deal, Drama?”  
  
“My deal?”  
  
“Yeah. You have some problem with me lately?”  
  
Drama shrugs. “Only problem I have with you is Vince seems to fucked your sense of humor out.”  
  
“You make a joke that’s actually funny instead of fucking insulting, maybe I’ll laugh,” Eric says.   
  
“Oh come on, E. Since when are you Mr. Sensitive?”  
  
“Since I’ve got the whole goddamned world already picking on my choice in partners. I don’t need you piling on.”  
  
Drama rolls his eyes. “I’m not censoring myself just because you’re feeling insecure about your decisions, bro. If anything, you should be thanking me for toughening you up.”  
  
Eric scoffs. “Sure. And it’s only me who needs toughening up, huh? That’s why all your jokes are aimed my way, not at Vince?”  
  
“Hey, guys, cool it,” Turtle says. “You wanna go outside and beat the shit out of each other, go ahead, but in here I got a tequila headache, all right?”  
  
Eric is tempted to stand up and tell Drama to step outside; he’s tempted to just finally have it out with him. But before he can get the energy up to really push things, the sliding door opens and Arnold bounds in, followed by Vince. “Hey, you’re back!” he says, grinning at Eric.  
  
“Yeah.” Arnold’s licking Turtle’s cheek, his ass in Drama’s face, and that makes Eric feel better. Vince sits on the arm of his chair and rubs his neck, and Eric takes a deep breath. Drama being Drama, he tells himself, but it doesn’t really help.  
  


* * *

  
  
Wednesday, they go back to Ari’s, just Vince and Eric. Ari still looks kind of pale, but he also looks better than the week before. “Vince, give me one second with your boy, OK?” Ari says, and Vince nods and gives Eric a quizzical look before he turns to wait in the lobby.  
  
Ari crosses his arms. “You passed on Courier.”  
  
“Fuck, yeah, we passed.”  
  
“No, I mean,  _you_  passed,” Ari says, and he keeps staring until Eric shrugs. “Does he know?”  
  
Eric shrugs again, then shakes his head. He can see Vince talking to Lloyd in the waiting area, laughing at something. “Why? You think I should have —”  
  
“Fuck you, I want him on basic cable?” Ari shakes his head. “You tell anyone I said this and I’ll deny it like I’m Ryan Seacrest’s boyfriend, but E, I’m so fucking proud of you right now I could weep.”  
  
“Somehow, your pride in me is more troubling than your disdain,” Eric says, but he smiles a little. “Can we let the actual movie star in, now, or do you need to give me a gold star or something?”  
  
“By all means,” Ari says, and Eric holds open the door. “Now this is the kind of deference I like to see,” Ari says as Vince walks through. “Vinnie, you got him trained right. Maybe you can give a course to my wife.”  
  
“I’m not touching that one,” Vince mutters, and Eric snorts.  
  
“All right, but, seriously, I have the video,” Ari says, pulling a DVD case off his desk.  
  
Eric sits forward, and his stomach twists. “Already?”  
  
“It’s a rough cut, but you’ll get the idea.”  
  
He reaches for the case and says, “How’s it look?”  
  
“You, my friend, are going to love it. You’ll pull muscle groups you didn’t know you had watching that, E.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Trust me, baby, it’s hot,” Ari says. “You’re looking at the next killer vid, there, man. I talked to LaDell’s people already, they love it, they’re going to release it next week like planned, and the buzz? It’s already making me hard.” Ari rubs his hands together, then whirls. “Don’t get jealous, E, it’s a professional hard-on.”  
  
“I’d never worry about you,” Eric says. He turns the case over in his hands, then stands up. He sees Vince and Ari exchange some look, and that worries him, but no one says anything. Ari crows a little more about the video and tells Eric to talk to Shauna about doing some preview for it, some Internet news show, and then they leave.  
  
In the car, Vince says, “E, it’s fine. You know it’s gonna be fine.”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, but he keeps staring at the road, and he turns on the radio fast to stop the conversation. He just — doesn’t want to see it. Not yet. He should be curious, but it feels like, well, like everything is riding on this video. It’s probably only four minutes long, and Eric’s as nervous as if he was driving to see the first  _Medellin_  cut.  
  
“E, seriously,” Vince says, and Eric realizes he’s been drumming his finger over the DVD case, which is resting on the console between them, for their whole trip. “Am I that fucked?”  
  
“Seriously?” Eric shrugs. “I don’t know, Vince. I’ve never been down this road before.”  
  
“You don’t think Nightfeeders is gonna do well?”  
  
“I think it should do well,” Eric says as they pull into the driveway. He stops the car but keeps looking ahead. “Everything’s in place. But Ari’s right, if it doesn’t, everybody’s gonna look for someplace to land that blame.”  
  
He doesn’t have to look over for Vince to know who he means, but he does, anyway, and Vince blinks, and Eric sees him get it, again, and he feels momentarily bad. Because of course, it’s not just his career, it’s this whole life that’s at stake — their whole life, and Turtle’s and Drama’s. If the movie flops, everyone will say it was Vince coming out, and even Cameron will be pissed, and yeah, then they probably will be fucked. Maybe the Fincher movie will get pushed back. Maybe the offers will dry up. Vince looks away and after a second he shrugs, but Eric can see through the bullshit. He’s worried, too; it’s a huge gamble, and they can’t turn back now.  
  
Eric wants to reach over, touch Vince, reassure him somehow, but the top is down on the convertible and he can hear the paparazzi calling their names, his name, even from there. So he pockets the keys and picks up the DVD and heads inside.   
  
Vince wanders toward the living room, and Eric follows, after a minute, the disc still in his hand. Turtle’s crashed on the couch, and he sits up as they walk in.  
  
“What’s up, fellas?”  
  
Vince says, “We saw Ari, just got a copy of that video.”  
  
“Yeah? We should watch that,” Turtle says. “That model was smokin’. Where’s it at?”  
  
Vince shrugs and looks back at him, and Eric nods. He slides the disc into the DVD player, then turns around, surprised to see Vince already stretched out on the other couch. “Shift,” he says, and Vince sits up long enough for Eric to settle in, then he rests his head on Eric’s thigh. Eric knows he’s not really tired — they haven’t even been awake that long — but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe Vince needs a little soothing, right now. Maybe he’s as nervous as Eric is. Eric lowers his hand to Vince’s hair, and Vince murmurs something appreciative.  
  
The video is, actually, pretty hot: lots of shots of Vince in black-and-white, wearing the sharp suits they had for him, looking powerful and pretty at the same time, glowering, slamming down a stack of bills, holding out a hand for the girl to join him. Kanye makes incongruous appearances in the background. Half the video is black and white, the other half is done with heavy tints in blue and green. The chorus — which comes up three times — is Vince and the model, making out in slow-motion in the back of the limo. The last shot is Vince sitting in the back of that car, his arms spread out across the back of the seat, looking straight into the camera like,  _I dare you_ , or  _Come at me_ , or  _Here I am_. It’s not bad; it’s also not great. It’s just a fucking music video, flashy romance for wannabe gangsters. Eric can’t really believe that Ari thinks this is going to save them.  
  
“Jesus,” Turtle says, when the song is over. “Personal porn, E. You should send Ari a bottle of wine or something.”  
  
Eric rolls his eyes, and Vince laughs and looks up at him. “Don’t joke, Turtle,” Vince says, “E thinks I’m gonna have to start doing porn, soon, just to keep working.”  
  
“Is that lucrative?” Turtle asks.  
  
“Billy thought so,” Vince says. “Hey, maybe he could direct.”  
  
“Oh, fuck you,” Eric says, looking down. He feels a strange flare of annoyance, a little tightening in his shoulders. Even now that he’s seen it, Vince doesn’t care? Fine, Eric thinks, play dumb. He draws his hand back, doesn’t look down at Vince.  
  
Turtle snorts. “Bet he wouldn’t stay on script.” He starts the video again, and Vince sits up next to Eric, not touching him at all. Eric doesn’t reach over, either. When it’s over, Eric stands up and gets out his phone. He makes a motion like he’s going upstairs to call someone, but really, he just wants to get away. He doesn’t want to see the video again, and not just because it’s a stupid music video. Really, there’s nothing hot about watching his boyfriend making out with some girl, and there’s definitely nothing hot about knowing that soon, thousands — maybe even millions — of people will be able to see it, too. He wants to call Ari and tell him to pull it, to axe the whole idea, to axe himself for thinking of it, but instead he takes a couple of deep breaths and sits calmly for a moment, forcing himself to relax. He’s thinking like a lover instead of a manager, and that shit has to stop. If he wants people to keep taking him seriously, then he’s got to divide his duties. Ari’s right. They need something, and this video is probably the best they can do. It’s better than sitting down with  _Rolling Stone_  or Larry King or Oprah, that’s for sure.   
  
Eric takes another deep breath, then rests his head in his hands. The truth is, whatever he’s saying to Vince, he thinks things are only going to get worse. He thinks if  _Nightfeeders_  bombs, not only is Vince going to get the blame from the studio and Cameron, Eric’s going to get his fair share, too, for not managing Vince better about when to come out, and for being the reason he’s off track in the first place. And that’s going to be hard for them to balance, on top of all of the other shit they’re still working on and going through. It’s just gonna get harder for a while. No one in the world seems to think that they should get a happy ending, that this should work. Eric wants badly to prove them wrong, but he feels the pressure. He tells himself that eventually, things will be better, easier, things will be OK, but he can’t quite talk himself into it.   
  


* * *

  
  
The next morning, Vince sits down with his cereal and says, “All right, so you hated the video.”  
  
“Hated?” Eric says. He looks up from his breakfast — oatmeal — and blinks. He thought he was covering better than this. “I didn’t hate it.”  
  
“You didn’t say anything,” Vince says.   
  
“I thought it was fine,” he says.  
  
“You seriously did?”  
  
Eric nods. “The black and white was a good idea. LaDell does good work.”  
  
Vince groans. “I’m talking about me, dickhead.”  
  
He shrugs. “You were good, too.”   
  
Vince stares at him. “E, is something going on?” he asks.  
  
“What?” Eric’s got his spoon halfway to his mouth. “Like what?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Vince says. “But you’re being weird.”  
  
“I’m not being weird,” he says, shaking his head. He’s tired, he’s frustrated, a little, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Vince keeps staring at him. “What? I’m not.”  
  
Vince frowns. “You are,” he says, “but whatever, if you don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
Eric sighs. “Vin, nothing’s going on,” he says. “I’m worried about the movie.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Vince says. Eric shrugs when Vince keeps staring at him. “If this is just about the movie, I’ll eat my spoon,” he says.  
  
“What else would it be about?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Vince says. His voice is infuriating: soft and knowing all at once, like he’s mocking Eric. “What would it be about?”  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Eric says, setting down his spoon. “It’s like having a fucking girlfriend sometimes.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“You’re pissed at me because, what, I didn’t give you a standing ovation for the video?”  
  
“I’m not pissed at anyone,” Vince says, though Eric can tell that’s not so true anymore, “but you seem kinda testy.”  
  
“Yeah, whatever,” Eric says. He picks up his bowl — it’s not even half-empty — and carries it to the sink. “I’m gonna go to the office for a while,” he says, and walks out without saying another word. He gets into the car, slides on his sunglasses, and then keeps one hand up to block the cameras as he eases the car onto the street. Christ, he wants to rev his motor, really put the car in gear, but they’re so close that he has to creep along, giving them all plenty of time to snap their photos. “Vultures,” he mutters, and finally gets clear enough to put some speed on.  
  
He calls Turtle from the office and reminds him to pick Vince up for his appointment with the therapist that afternoon. “I thought he was done,” Turtle says, and Eric sighs. To be honest, he thought Vince was done, too, but he still goes to talk with Margot once every few weeks. He says it helps him stay centered, and Eric figures right now, anything that helps should be encouraged. So he tells Turtle to just go, and then he tries to concentrate on his full inbox for a while. He manages to pare it down to only a few dozen unanswered messages by lunch time, and though he thinks about calling Vince, he decides to just wait until he’s home to get into it all again with him. He stays at the office well into the afternoon, picks up their laundry on the way home, and is surprised when he walks into an empty house. He texts Turtle and finds out they’re at a club, and that makes him quickly, sharply angry. After all of this, Vince is just ready to go out again? Without Eric? Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks. There will be pictures all over tomorrow. He hangs up the laundry and goes to bed, and though he wakes up, he doesn’t move at all when Vince climbs in next to him at 2.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next day over a late breakfast, Eric says, “So where’d you go last night?”  
  
Vince shrugs. “Turtle just wanted to hang out for a while. I thought you’d call when you were done at the office.”  
  
That’s actually a fair assumption. Eric almost always calls Vince when he’s in transit. He clears his throat. “Did you have a good time?”  
  
Vince shrugs again. “Not really,” he says. “I mean, it was fine, but the guys both struck out.” He’s toying with his bagel. “Lots of paparazzi,” he says finally, and he sounds just discouraged and bewildered enough that Eric’s anger deflates.  
  
Eric nods. “There were a lot out front yesterday, too.”  
  
“Shauna says the offer price has gone up.” They’ve talked about this a few times: everyone wants a proof picture of the two of them, a hug, a kiss, something that proves they are gay and together. The few grainy shots they have with Vince’s arm around his shoulders at the donut shop downtown sold like crazy, she says. Eric doesn’t want to think what a price hike might mean.  
  
“How was your thing yesterday?” Eric asks.  
  
“With Margot?” Eric nods. “It was good,” Vince says. “Actually — this is sort of weird. But, she asked if maybe, if you wouldn’t mind maybe coming along next time.”  
  
Eric narrows his eyes. “What, for therapy?”  
  
Vince nods. “She said it might be good just to see us together.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I dunno,” Vince says. “Maybe she’s just checking to see if I’m telling the truth about stuff, you know, like are things with us like I say they are.”   
  
“Like couple’s therapy or something?”  
  
Vince shrugs. “I guess. Could be good. What do you say?”  
  
“Uh, no?” Eric says, and Vince rolls his eyes. “What, you think we should?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “It can’t hurt.”  
  
“But what’s it going to help?”  
  
Vince sighs. “You don’t really know until you get there.”  
  
“Fifteen fucking years, man, you really think we need someone telling us how to be us?”  
  
“She won’t tell us anything,” Vince says. “Seriously, you don’t think there’s anything that could be better between us?”  
  
“You could listen to me more,” Eric says. “Like right now.”  
  
“I’m serious,” Vince says, and he leans forward. “And you know what, you’re serious, too, probably, even if you don’t realize it. There’s shit going on we could work out.”  
  
“Is this about yesterday?” Eric asks. “About breakfast? Did you tell her we were fighting?” Vince shrugs, which means yes. “Jesus, no wonder she wants to see us both.”  
  
“You’re saying, you walked out on me yesterday morning, you don’t think that’s worth talking about?”  
  
Eric laughs. “Yeah! Yeah, let’s talk about it. But we don’t need a fucking audience for that, OK? We’ve got enough people horning in on us now, we don’t need a fucking therapist added to the mix.”  
  
Vince says, quietly, “Then let’s talk about it. Why’d you leave, yesterday?”  
  
Eric wants to explain. He could just talk about the stress of all those cameras outside, talk about the downturn in the studio’s expectations for Nightfeeders, talk about his big fear, that come the end of summer, someone’s going to suggest that maybe Fincher’s movie isn’t the best fit for them after all. But more than he wants to talk, he doesn’t want to lay that all out on Vince. Not right now. So he just says, “I was having a rough morning.”  
  
“Rough how?”  
  
He shrugs. “I didn’t sleep so well, and then you were on me about the video, and I just — I wasn’t ready to talk about it,” he says.  
  
“Are you ready now?”  
  
“Sure,” Eric says. “But I don’t think there’s a lot to talk about it, not really. I mean, the video’s done, it looks great, you look great in it.”  
  
Vince stares across the table at him, like he’s trying to read his mind. Eric concentrates on looking honest, on looking like he means this. He doesn’t really want to get into this fight again, and it can’t help anything right now for him to tell the truth. “Look, I’m just kind of stressed out,” he says, finally. He scratches his neck, ducking his head so he doesn’t have to look Vince in the eye. Jesus, if this is acting, it’s fucking exhausting. “I’m not used to people wanting to take my picture, you know?”  
  
“Yeah,” Vince says, and he nods, just once. “I know. I’m sorry, I know it’s weird, hard, whatever right now. It’ll get better. OK?”  
  
“I know,” Eric says. He cracks a smile. “I just wish it would hurry up.”  
  
“We just — I think we just keep doing what we’re going, right?” Vince says. “Just go on like normal.”  
  
Eric nods, agreeing even though he’s thinking about how not normal everything is right now. But if Vince thinks they’re maintaining OK, then Eric’s not going to say anything different. One of them, at least, should be happy with how things are going.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next night, they go out to dinner, as part of the effort to just go on like normal. When they get to the restaurant, there’s some kind of problem, someone spilled something in their booth and there’s broken glass everywhere, so they go to the bar to wait while the table’s getting cleared. Turtle and Drama get their drinks from the bar while Vince and Eric stake out a tall table in the corner. Eric’s still thinking about the paparazzi outside, wondering if he walked too close to Vince. “Vince, here’s your G and T,” Drama says, handing over a glass, and then he slides a tall glass with a mint sprig in front of Eric.  
  
“What the fuck, Drama, I said a beer.”  
  
He shrugs. “It’s Ladies’ Night, two dollars off mojitos.”  
  
“That’s it,” Eric says, pushing away from the table and stepping toward Drama.   
  
Vince flings an arm across his chest. “Yo, ease up,” he says. “Turtle, can you get him a beer?”  
  
Drama snickers and sips his own drink, and Eric glares at him. He’s so fucking sick of this. “I don’t want a beer,” he says, shaking Vince’s arm off. Vince grips his biceps instead. “You know what, I’m not even hungry anymore.”  
  
“Oh, come on, E, he’s sorry. Johnny,” Vince says, and Drama rolls his eyes.  
  
“You know what, bro, actually I’m not sorry.” Drama sets his drink down on the table. “Unless we’re mourning the death of E’s sense of humor, and yeah, I’m pretty broken up about that.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Eric says. “You aren’t being funny, Drama, you’re being a dick. Deny it all you want, but you’re doing this shit on purpose, you’re just bashing me for the hell of it.”  
  
“I’m not doing anything I haven’t always done,” Drama says, his voice full of mock innocence and offense.  
  
“Right,” Eric says.  
  
Vince starts to say, “E —” but the hostess shows up then to lead them to their table. Vince keeps a tight grip on Eric’s arm, so he has to follow. It’s either that or really make a scene.  
  
They make it through dinner, but barely. Eric sits in the corner near the wall, blocked in by Vince, and Drama sits diagonal from him. Vince and Turtle mostly keep the conversation going. Vince also keeps his hand on Eric’s leg through the whole meal, which Eric finds mildly patronizing, but somehow also necessary. Drama doesn’t make any cracks, just talks about filming and the cooking technique he guesses the chef used on his fish, but Eric still grits his teeth through half of the meal. If he were fifteen, he’d kick him under the table. Or climb under the table and drag him outside to fight.  
  
After dinner they were supposed to all go out, something they haven’t done in forever, but Eric is totally not in the mood and Vince seems to pick up on it. He tells the other guys to go ahead, and after they’ve left they get into Eric’s car. “OK,” Vince says, “what’s going on with you and Johnny?”  
  
Eric pauses. He wants to tell Vince everything, because he wants Vince to be on his side, but he also doesn’t want to tell him everything, because — well, it’s his brother. Vince might feel bad. Or hurt. And Eric’s pretty sure that whatever Drama’s saying, he doesn’t actually mean it; he’s just trying, for whatever reason, to get under Eric’s skin.  
  
“He’s just been, uh, he’s been picking on me more, I guess, recently,” Eric says. It sounds lame, so he’s not surprised when Vince doesn’t look convinced.  
  
“It was a dumb joke tonight,” he says. “But he’s right, E, that’s the kind of shit the guys have pulled for years. Hell, we’ve done stuff like that to them.”  
  
“It’s not just tonight,” Eric says. “Look, every time I’m around him recently, he’s just been a pain in the ass for me. I shouldn’t’ve gotten so worked up tonight, OK, but — he’s got it coming, Vin.”  
  
“You’re not seriously going to get into a fight with my brother, are you?”  
  
“If he keeps acting like an asshole,” Eric mutters, and Vince groans.  
  
“Christ, E. It’s Johnny. You know how he is. Sometimes he’s weird, you just have to, like, ride it out. You know this.”  
  
Eric shake his head. “This is more than that. This is — he’s like targeting me, or something.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s true.” Vince rubs his shoulder. “You don’t think it’s possible he’s right, maybe? A little?”  
  
“What, you think I lost my sense of humor, too?”  
  
“No, but I think you’re stressed out, and you’re taking stuff meant to be a joke — a stupid joke, sure — a little harder than usual.”  
  
Eric glares over at him, but it’s hard to be mad at Vince when he’s looking at him with this warm, affectionate face. “I’m not crazy,” he says.  
  
“I know,” Vince says. “Listen, maybe let’s go to the gym tomorrow. You want to hit the bags? I can call Kerwin.”  
  
“Maybe,” Eric says. Kerwin is Vince’s boxing trainer on the film. Eric’s been enjoying Vince’s sessions with him, and not just because it’s pretty hot to watch Vince working out. Going along tomorrow could be a good way to get rid of some of this tension. Particularly if he pictures Drama’s face on the bag. “Yeah, call him up.”  
  
“Good,” Vince says. “Now, come on, no more of this tonight, all right? Just let it go. It’s just Johnny being Johnny, E.”  
  
“I know,” Eric says, and he tries to pretend that he does.


	3. Chapter 3

The video releases and goes straight to the top, helped along by multiple mentions in all of the star mags that are currently tracking Vince. Turtle moves into Drama’s building but spends most of his time at the house anyway, because Eric is still twitchy about leaving. In fact, he gets so tired of cameras outside his door that when Turtle suggests they go to Vegas for Easter weekend, he jumps at the suggestion and makes the calls himself. They get a huge suite and all kinds of comps just for Vince staying around a few nights. They gamble a little and Eric wins twenty grand on a single roll at craps and says he’s done for the night. Vince, who’s down about that much, says he’s willing to call it a night, too, and they leave the guys debating whether to gamble more or hit the Pussycat Dolls show. Vince grips Eric’s shoulder as they walk across the casino so they don’t lose each other in the crowd, and in the elevator he pushes Eric up against the wall and says, “You’re so fucking hot,” and Eric laughs even as he’s being kissed.  
  
“What’d I do?” he asks, his hands on Vince’s waist.  
  
“I love a high roller,” Vince says, and then he bends to kiss and suck Eric’s neck.  
  
They step out of the elevator still entangled, Eric backing Vince into the hallway and then against the wall there. They make out for a minute or so, until the rumbling of the elevator behind them starts to make Eric too nervous. Vince growls a little when Eric pulls back and he laughs again. He hooks Vince by the belt loop and says, “C’mon, Ace, let’s get a room.”   
  
Vince grins and draws back. “Callin’ me DeNiro? Nice, E.” He slides his hand into Eric’s back pocket as they walk, and it’s only a little ways to their room so Eric lets him. As they turn the corner they run into a gaggle of girls in shiny club wear, and three of them have their camera phones out. Eric flinches, but when he looks over, Vince is just grinning, his head ducked a little toward Eric as he says, “Excuse us, ladies.”  
  
Vince stays close to him as he unlocks the door, and inside, Eric tosses the card key on the side table and shakes free to walk to the bar. Vince follows and hops up on the counter, still grinning. “I think those girls got pictures of us,” Eric says.  
  
“So what?” Vince says, grabbing Eric’s biceps. Eric puts his beer down and lets himself be dragged over so he’s standing between Vince’s legs. “This is what being out means, Eric. People can take pictures all they want, who the fuck cares? In fact, the more pictures they take, the less we get hassled.” He raises one eyebrow. “You wanna go down to the pool and give ‘em a real show?”  
  
“You’re such an idiot,” Eric says, but he grins in spite of himself. What the hell, he thinks. Better those girls than the assholes outside their door at home. Vince cups his face, leans down and kisses him, and after a minute, in the new spirit of outness, Eric decides that Vince’s suggestion of a blowjob isn’t a bad one, and manages to get Vince’s belt undone and pants down in nearly record time. In the old spirit of fairness, Vince returns the favor, Eric sitting on a barstool while Vince goes down on him, and it’s during that the main door opens and the guys come in. Though they’re mostly put back together by the time Turtle rounds the corner, Eric knows he can see exactly what they’ve been up to. It’s not hard to tell, after all — Eric’s still fumbling with his belt and he knows he must be as red as the nickel chips downstairs, beyond still being hard, and Vince is standing, just buttoning his shirt. They’re both breathing like they’ve just run a four-minute mile.  
  
“Uh, whoa, sorry,” Turtle says, and Vince laughs, fast and high pitched.  
  
“Not as sorry as I am,” Eric says, closing his belt.  
  
Drama appears behind Turtle. “We gonna smoke or what?”  
  
Turtle holds up a joint. “Guys?”  
  
They crowd out onto the balcony with them, and Vince drops into a lounge chair. Eric takes a seat on the edge of Vince’s chair, while Turtle hands a joint to Drama and starts rolling a new one.  
  
Vince slides his hand up under Eric’s shirt back and says, “Raincheck?” and Eric laughs.  
  
Turtle lights up, and Vince says, “What’s up, guys, I thought you were going to that show.”  
  
“Nah, sold out, bro,” Drama says. “So we thought we’d see if you guys wanted to hit Pure.”  
  
“You mean you realized you couldn’t get in VIP without Vince,” Eric says, and Drama takes a hit and rolls his eyes at the same time.  
  
“Shut up, dickbreath,” he says, and Eric actually thinks  _Jesus Christ, do I really_  — before he realizes it’s just an insult like always.  
  
“So, Vin, whaddya say?” Turtle asks.  
  
Vince rubs Eric’s back. “I kind of had some plans of my own,” he says.  
  
Drama snorts. “So get E to jerk you in the bathroom and let’s go.”  
  
Eric starts to protest, but Vince beats him to it. “All right, look, I’ll go, but only if you promise to knock this shit off with E.”  
  
“What stuff?” Drama says, and then, as Vince stares at him, “OK, yeah, whatever, best behavior, bro.”  
  
“All right.” Vince looks up at Eric and Eric frowns. “What?” he says, and Eric shakes his head. He gets off the chair and says he’s going to change, and after a few minutes Vince joins him in their room, smelling like weed.  
  
“I can fight my own fucking battles,” Eric says, struggling into a T-shirt.  
  
“Jesus,” Vince says, falling back on the bed. “I don’t say anything, I’m a jerk, I do say something —”  
  
“You’re just feeding into what he’s talking about,” Eric says. “He’s been calling me a pussy in every way possible for the last two weeks, and now it looks like I need big strong Vince to step in for me?”  
  
“E,” Vince says, shaking his head, and his hand snakes out and grabs Eric by the pantsleg. “Eric. Come on. I’ll do whatever you want. Fuck what Johnny thinks, what anyone thinks. I just want you to be happy, I just want things to work out.”  
  
Eric looks down and knows Vince is telling the truth. Vince just wants everything to be OK. Eric doesn’t want to ruin things. “I know,” he says. He sits on the bed and rests his hand on Vince’s abs. “It’s cool, we’re OK.”  
  
Vince sits up and drapes himself over Eric’s back. “You gonna dance with me?” he asks, his breath warm against Eric’s ear.  
  
“Not likely,” Eric says. “But I will watch.”  
  
“Mm.” Vince kisses his neck. “Jesus, you’re tense.”  
  
“Fucking Drama, Vin, I’m telling you.”  
  
“You could just get him back,” Vince says. “Have a little fun with him, too. If he’s as weirded out as you think he is, rub his face in it. He’ll knock it off if you hit back.”  
  
Eric looks back at him. “You’re telling me to pick a fight with your brother?”  
  
“No, I’m saying, fight words with words, E.” Vince kisses him again. “But if you have to get physical, promise me you’ll watch the face, all right, bruiser? He’s got to work.”  
  
Eric laughs. “Yeah, yeah.”  
  
“And speaking of physical,” Vince says, his hands sliding up under the shirt Eric just put on, “I believe we were interrupted before.”  
  
“The guys are waiting,” Eric says.  
  
“They can wait a little longer.”  
  


* * *

  
  
At the club, Vince does disappear onto the dance floor for a while, and Eric gets a drink and settles in at their table. He really doesn’t mind watching — Vince is hot, and Eric knows Vince knows it, and Eric knows Vince knows exactly what will happen if he lays anything more than the most casual hand on the girls who surround him. That’s the nice part of the grown-up relationship; he’s been watching Vince with girls his whole life, so he doesn’t have to waste much energy on worrying about it now. It’s weird, he knows, how something like the video sets him off, but this doesn’t bother him. He tries not to think too much about it.  
  
Drama settles in next to him, smoking a cigar, and Eric coughs and waves his hand. “Jesus, what is that, made from seaweed or something?”  
  
“I’ll have you know, this is a fine Honduran cigar. Cigar Aficionado gave it a very high rating, higher than some Cubans. What you’re smelling is probably its subtle grassy notes.”  
  
“It smells like fucking rot, Drama, can you shove over or something?”  
  
“No taste for the finer things,” he says, and scoots so he’s sitting in the corner of the booth. Eric looks out at the floor, where Turtle’s totally striking out with a girl in a pink dress and Vince is in the middle of a small ring of onlookers, swinging his arms and his hips in time with the beat, just fucking gorgeous under the flashing lights.  
  
Drama says, “I don’t know, E, looks like he’s got his eye on that little blonde.”  
  
And yeah, there’s a girl in there with him, and she’s a little close for comfort, but Eric’s not really bothered. If it weren’t for Drama’s cigar, he’d be able to still smell Vince on his own skin. He thinks about what Vince said and smirks. “Yeah, well forty-five minutes ago, he had his mouth on my cock, so I’m not too worried about his eye.”  
  
“Jesus,” Drama says, leaning forward fast and looking around with his eyes all bugged out, the cigar forgotten in his hand. “Christ, E, there could be reporters. What the fuck, you’re calling Vince a cocksucker in front of everybody?”  
  
“We’re out now,” Eric says. “I’m not calling him anything, I’m stating a fucking fact.” Eric leans back, enjoying the alarmed look on Drama’s face a little too much.  
  
Turtle drops back into the chair opposite Eric and picks up his drink.  
  
“No go?” Eric asks, though it’s obvious.  
  
Turtle shakes his head. “She went back to hang with her friends.”  
  
“Couldn’t close, huh?” Drama takes a theatrical puff on his cigar. “Christ, am I the only real man left among us?”  
  
Before Eric can get a word in, Turtle says, “You guys are at it again?”  
  
“Ahh, ignore him,” Eric says. “He’s all offended because he just discovered that his brother and I do more than read the Bible in the evenings.”  
  
“Hey, I resent that,” Drama says. “You know I’ve got no problem with you guys being — how you guys are.”  
  
“Right, no problem at all,” Eric says. “Say, where’s your masseuse friend this trip?”  
  
Turtle laughs, and so does Eric. Fuck, it feels good to have Drama be the one at the table who’s uncomfortable. Turtle says, “Yeah, whatever happened to Ken, Drama? He seemed like a cool guy, just your type. Couldn’t close, huh?”  
  
“I could give you some tips, if you want,” Eric says. He looks out to the floor and manages to catch Vince’s eye, grins at him and tips his drink in Vince’s direction. “Look who I landed.”  
  
“Fuck you, I don’t need your help,” Drama says. “Besides, you didn’t land him, you lucked into him. Let’s face it, he’s way out of your league.”  
  
Turtle says, “Like Ken was anywhere in yours.”  
  
“Shut up about that.”  
  
“Why, did we hit a nerve?” Eric knocks back the rest of his beer, then grabs Drama’s cell off the table. He’s laughing for about the first time this week. “What’s his number, I bet I can patch this all up.”  
  
“Give that back,” Drama says, lunging, dropping the cigar, and Eric dodges and slides out of the booth.  
  
He’s not really looking for anything in the phone, just scrolling through Drama’s huge contact list, but he says — “Yo, here, is this him?”  
  
Drama reaches for the phone again, misses, and then struggles out of the booth on the other side. Eric looks at the screen. “Jesus, are these little hearts around his name? Sad, Drama. This is a new low of pathetic even for you.” He grabs for the phone again and Eric dodges away.  
  
“Fuck you, you fucking pussy,” Drama snarls.  
  
Eric slowly lowers the phone. “Say that again,” he says, squaring his footing.  
  
“Yo yo yo,” Turtle says, suddenly standing between them. “Ease up, fellas, you’re in public.”  
  
Drama says, “Tell him to give me back my fucking phone.”  
  
Turtle looks at Eric, widens his eyes a little, and Eric shakes his head. “Whatever,” he says, and hands it back, just as he sees Vince pushing through the crowd.  
  
“Everything OK?” he asks, one hand on Drama’s shoulder though he’s looking right at Eric.  
  
“Fine,” Eric says.  
  
“Your girlfriend’s a fucking douche-bag,” Drama says.  
  
“Your brother’s a —”  
  
“Stop it,” Vince says. “Jesus Christ, the pair of you. Turtle, get the car. If you’re gonna beat each other up, at least can we do it in fucking private?”  
  
Eric shrugs. “Anytime he wants a fair fight instead of this pussy name-calling shit, I’ll go,” he says. Vince just glares at him and doesn’t touch him, and Eric starts to feel bad. But Drama’s glaring at him, too, and that makes him feel, well, justified. The guy is being a total fucking prick.  
  
When they get in the car, Vince, sitting in the back with Eric, says, “OK, what the fuck is going on, you two?”  
  
“You know my side,” Eric says, looking out the window.  
  
“Johnny, what’s the deal?”  
  
Eric expects more denials. Instead, Drama says, “He’s cock-blocking my career!” and Eric’s head jerks around.  
  
“The fuck are you talking about?”  
  
“The Courier pilot,” Drama says, and Eric flinches.  
  
Vince says, “What about it?”  
  
“Your fucking boytoy there torpedoed my chances.”  
  
Eric rubs his face. “That’s not what happened.”  
  
Drama snorts. “I have it on good authority that, until they called you, I had that part nailed.”  
  
Vince turns. “E, is this true?”  
  
“No,” he says. “No one from there called me.” Vince is still looking at him, and Eric takes a deep breath. “Lloyd called me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Eric can’t look at Drama or Vince. “They wanted to make a deal.”  
  
“What kind of deal?” Vince asks.  
  
Usually, this is the kind of shit he’d spare Drama from, but tonight, he wants him to hear it all. “You for him,” he says. “They wanted you to commit to a guest spot, maybe an arc, during sweeps.”  
  
“And you said no.” Eric nods. “Without asking me.”  
  
“Do you know how many things I don’t ask you about in a day?”  
  
“But I’m his  _brother_ ,” Drama says, and Eric looks up. Drama’s face is red, his fists are clenched. “I’m fucking family, and you’re — you’re still on the payroll.”  
  
Eric hears Vince scoff or gasp or something; it’s hard to tell what the noise is over the pulse in his ears. “Yeah, you’re right,” Eric says, “maybe I’m not family, but I work every fucking day. I get paid because I work, Drama, which is more than I can say for you.”  
  
“Oh come on, E. Everyone in the whole fucking world knows you basically get paid to suck Vince’s cock,” Drama says, and Eric jerks forward but Vince’s arm around his chest stops him.  
  
“Stop it!” Vince yells, almost at the same time Turtle does.   
  
Turtle says, “Jesus fucking Christ, do I have to make someone get out and walk?”  
  
Vince is panting, and so is Eric. Drama’s half-turned, glaring at him but also looking kind of alarmed, and Eric turns from him to look at Vince. Vince’s eyes are wide but he’s staring at the floor. Turtle says, “Jesus Christ, Drama,” and Eric sits back, but Vince doesn’t.   
  
“OK,” Eric says, rubbing Vince’s tight shoulder. “OK. Hey. Hey,” he says, until Vince looks back at him. “OK, I’m sorry, I’m done.”   
  
Vince frowns, but when Eric pulls on his shoulder he sits back. He’s looking at the front, where Drama’s hunched up in his seat. “No more of this,” he says, although quietly, so only Eric can hear. “He’s just trying to get you.”  
  
Eric nods, but he thinks, it’s fucking working. Drama’s talking to Turtle in low mutter up front, and Eric decides to let it go. Drama being fucking Drama, after all, and he doesn’t want to make anything worse for Vince. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, leaning against Vince’s arm, and after a minute Vince nods, and he lets Eric rub his shoulders. They’re kissing when they arrive at hotel, and when Drama says, “Turtle, get the hose,” Eric doesn’t even flip him off.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next day, of course, there’s an awkward talk. A couple of them, actually, starting with Vince saying, “Is that thing about Lloyd calling true?”  
  
Eric thinks, then feels bad for having to think, before he tells the truth. “Yeah,” he says. Vince is lying on his back in the bed, Eric sitting up against the headboard. He looks down, but Vince’s eyes are closed, his face unexpressive.  
  
“You passed?”  
  
“We fucking had to, Vince,” Eric says. “Basic cable? Right now — you know we gotta concentrate on filming, and we don’t want you unavailable if something comes up. And —” He pauses again, not sure of how much to say, but fuck it, Vince can’t  _not_  get this. “And… it’s not a good time.”  
  
He expects Vince to argue, but Vince just opens his eyes and says, “Yeah. I know.”  
  
Eric swallows. “Yeah?”  
  
Vince shrugs. “The first thing I do after coming out, for it to be a TV series — I get it, E. And I get that that was your problem with the video, too, and I think it was a valid concern. OK? I know you’re looking out.” Vince puts his hand on Eric’s leg.  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, about the pilot,” Eric says.  
  
“I’m not.” Vince shrugs. “Thanks for it not being my decision.”  
  
The drive home also has its awkward moments, like Drama pausing in the middle of calling Turtle a cocksucker, but mostly they’re OK. Drama even buys Eric a package of jalapeño kettle chips when they stop midway, and Eric takes those as an apology. By the time they get back in L.A., he’s feeling better about the whole weekend. Maybe they both just needed to push things, to blow off a little steam, and now they’ll be able to get back to being friends.  
  


* * *

  
  
A week later, they all go to the gym with Vince. In addition to the typical machines they have boxing rings on the first floor, near the free weights. It reminds Eric of being very young to be around boxers, reminds him of his dad placing money on the big Tyson fights and recalling the real glory days of boxing, Sugar Ray and then Ali. Drama claims to have some experience in boxing — Drama, if given an opportunity, would probably claim to have experience in nuclear fission — and so they’re both down on the floor, Drama hitting the heavy bag while Eric holds it, while Vince finishes up with cardio. Turtle’s sitting on the floor messing with his new MP3 player. The place is mostly empty, except for a trainer and another high-profile client — a pro, Eric guesses — on the other side of the floor. They’re closed to the public whenever Vince is scheduled.  
  
“That’s a nice one,” Eric says, rocking back with the weight of Drama’s punch. He’s trying to be kind to Drama, because he feels for the guy, a little, and because it makes Vince angry if he’s not. He hasn’t had any auditions since that pilot, and he’s been sort of bummed about things since Vegas.  
  
“Thanks, bro,” Drama says. “You wanna hit for a while? I should lay off or I’ll be sore tomorrow.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks,” Eric says. They switch places, and Eric warms up with a few slow crosses. “What’s up tomorrow?”  
  
“Got an audition,” Drama says.  
  
“Yeah? All right, Drama, that’s good. What for?”  
  
“New show on Fox,” he says. “It’s a recurring character, ex-husband of the lead. Guy has a motorcycle dealership. Tough guy with a good heart. I think I got it nailed.”  
  
Eric’s glad that the workout is taking most of his attention, because he hits the bag instead of snickering. “Sounds good, man.”  
  
“Who’s the girl, Drama?” Turtle asks.  
  
Eric settles into a half-crouch, gives the bag a good one-two combination, and Drama turns to talk to Turtle. “Jane McAllister,” he says, and Turtle laughs.  
  
“Aww, you’re gonna fuck Vin’s fallout on camera, now, too?” he asks, then says, quickly, “Sorry, E.”  
  
“The fuck do I care,” he says. He’s starting to get the nice warmth up his biceps that means he’s doing it right. He sinks another jab.  
  
“Actually, about that,” Drama says. “E — you think Vin could put in a good word with her?”  
  
Eric sighs. “You really want him to call some girl he hooked up with a hundred years ago, Drama? I’m not sure that’s gonna work out for you the way you hope.”  
  
“Come on, she’s not gonna be mad,” Drama says. “I mean, not now.”  
  
“Why not now? Is she married or something?” Turtle asks.  
  
“No, but Vince is,” Drama says. Eric rolls his eyes and hits the bag again, a nice combo that makes Drama wince a little. “All those girls who were heartbroken he never called back — you know they’re all over it now, right? They all blame you, not him.”  
  
Eric laughs. His breath’s coming a little fast, now, and he shifts into a full crouch, really going at the bag. What Drama’s saying — maybe it’s true. Girls are still friendly to Vince, which Eric finds a little baffling. If they’re mad at him, though, that’s just fine. “Great,” he says, keeping his head down.  
  
“So — what do you say?”  
  
“Talk to Vince.”  
  
Drama huffs. “Come on, you know he’s just gonna send me back to you.”  
  
“Tell him I said,” Eric manages. He’s panting good now, really starting to feel it. This is how a workout should be.  
  
“Or you could just tell him to do it.”  
  
His eye stings, and Eric stops, wipes sweat back from his forehead. “Drama, I don’t tell him what to do,” Eric says. “I’m his manager, not his boss.”  
  
Drama snorts. “You mean you’re his girlfriend, not his wife, right?”  
  
Eric steadies his footing again. Just ignore it, he thinks, and says, “Ready?”  
  
“Nah,” Drama says, and steps back. “I’m not helping you if you don’t help me.”  
  
Eric rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Drama, can you not be a little kid about this? Come on, just hold the fucking bag.”  
  
“Not until you say he’ll make the call,” Drama says.  
  
“Go ask him,” Eric says, crossing his arms. He rubs his hands over his warm muscles. Jesus, he doesn’t want to lose his rhythm now. “I can’t just say he’s gonna call this girl. They had a thing, maybe he doesn’t want to.”  
  
“Maybe you don’t want him to,” Drama says. “What’s the matter, E, you jealous? Afraid he might turn back?”  
  
“Fuck you,” Eric says. “Turtle, hold the bag.”  
  
“No way,” Turtle says, still staring at his player. “I’m not getting in the middle of this shit.”  
  
Eric takes a step forward. What he wants, right now, is to hit something. Drama would do, he thinks, catching his sneer. He rubs his forehead again and half-turns, looking at the boxing ring. What he wants to do is tell Drama they should go, just climb up in there and beat the crap out of each other. But he thinks about Vince walking in and seeing it, thinks about Vince’s face the other night in the car. He takes a deep breath.  
  
And then he’s nearly knocked over. Drama’s hit the bag or pushed it or something, but it’s just rammed right into Eric’s side and knocked him totally off balance. He turns and narrowly misses getting hit by the bag again, but manages to grab it with both hands on the sides. “What the fuck?” he says as the bag drags him toward center again.  
  
“You’re sabotaging me,” Drama says, and he hits the bag while Eric’s still holding on to it, so his head bangs against the sweaty leather. “You’re fucking —”  
  
“Jesus, I am not,” Eric says, taking a step to the side, closer to the wall. He puts a hand out to steady himself. “But we’ve got enough to fucking deal with right now without Vince having to worry about your goddamned joke of a career.”  
  
“Take that back,” Drama says, his hands still up from hitting the bag.  
  
“You take back all the shit you’ve been saying, then,” Eric says. “Stop all your fucking gay jokes.”  
  
“Stop being such a fucking fag and I will,” Drama says.  
  
Eric drops and charges, but he’s in a bad position, trapped between the wall and the bag and Drama, and Drama drops the bag again and Eric gets slammed before he’s even reached him. His head connects with the wall, and he feels a scary, sluggish  _thud_  inside his skull, and when he tries to shake it off the room tilts and blurs for a second. But he can still see Drama a few feet in front of him, his fists up, and Eric takes a clumsy swing at him, and for a few seconds or minutes it’s just the chaos of a fight, Eric hitting him every time he can, his fists against Drama’s chest and shoulders and arms and even Drama’s fists, his elbow connecting once with what might be Drama’s rib or collarbone or shoulder. They hit the floor still wailing on each other. Turtle’s yelling at them but Eric can’t pay attention to anything but trying to get Drama off his fucking chest, and he gets in a clumsy open-handed strike against his jaw. That seems to work, because suddenly Drama’s toppling backwards and away and Eric wants to go after him but he realizes it’s nothing he’s done; one of the trainers has grabbed Drama by the arms and yanked him up and off, and before Eric can react Turtle’s got a hold on him, too.  
  
“The fuck are you doing?” Turtle yells.  
  
Eric’s panting, and when he tries to answer he tastes blood in his mouth. He can hear Drama snarling at the trainer who’s holding him back, but instead of making him angrier, the noise makes Eric deflate. Drama has a bloody lip and one hand across his chest; Eric feels a little sick. “Oh, fuck me,” he says, and sees Vince and his trainer running down the stairs. He shrugs Turtle off and gets to his feet, which is harder than it should be.  
  
“You aren’t gonna —”  
  
“No,” Eric says. He feels wetness under his nose and rubs, not entirely surprised to find blood there. The other trainer has let go of Drama, and Eric approaches him with his hands out, wanting a chance to talk before Vince gets there. “Drama,” he starts, and Drama backs off a step. His lip is bloody. Eric’s knuckles are scraped.  
  
“You know what, I’ll find my own fucking way home,” he says, and turns around; after a glance at Eric, Turtle follows him. When they run into Vince, Vince stops Turtle, and they have some fast whispered discussion that Eric can’t hear. Doesn’t want to hear, also, he decides, when Turtle rushes off and Vince comes right at him, looking pissed off.  
  
“Seriously?” he says, and Eric rubs his face, forgetting about the blood until he smears it.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Eric says, or tries to, but he has to clear his throat just to talk. He needs somewhere to spit the blood, finally just has to swallow.  
  
“Christ,” Vince says, and grabs him roughly by the shoulder. “Hey, Kerwin, can you take a look at him?”  
  
“What? Vince, I’m fine,” Eric says.  
  
Vince rolls his eyes. “Sure. You’re bleeding all over the place.”  
  
Kerwin is standing next to him, looking at Eric with his head tilted to the side. “Were you knocked out?”  
  
“No,” Eric says. He touches his nose carefully, then presses on the bridge. “See, nothing broken. I’m OK.” He takes the towel Kerwin offers to wipe off his face. It comes back pink with blood and spit, and Eric folds it over and holds it to his mouth.  
  
“Should be OK.” Kerwin claps Vince on the biceps and says, “We can pick up tomorrow if you need to get Rocky home.”  
  
“Yeah,” Vince says, glaring at Eric, “thanks. We’re gonna go.”  
  
Eric doesn’t protest. In fact, he doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know what he can say. Vince asked him not to fight with Drama and he did it; he hit him in the face, even, after being specifically asked not to. Vince says, “Get your stuff, let’s roll,” and Eric nods and turns to pick up his bag from the floor. And it’s that — not Drama, not the fight, but leaning over for his bag and then standing up too quick — that makes something click off in his head, and before he can even reach out for Vince or the wall or anything, he’s out.


	4. Chapter 4

He comes to with smelling salts under his nose, Kerwin crouched over him, and behind him Vince looking scared. “The fuck?” Eric says, and Kerwin laughs.  
  
“Still in there, huh?”  
  
Eric tries to sit up, but dizziness slides over him in a wave. Vince hurries over and puts his arm around his shoulders. “You know where you are?” Vince asks.  
  
“Caesar’s Palace,” Eric says. His whole body is sore, his head such a throbbing mess that he can’t even tell exactly what’s hurt. He’s getting too old for this bullshit.  
  
Kerwin grabs his chin, and Eric winces, but Kerwin holds on and looks at his eyes. “Guessin’ you got a concussion, pal,” he says, and finally releases Eric’s face.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Eric says. “Or I stood up too fast.”  
  
“Just shut up,” Vince says. His voice is full of — well, something. Worry, Eric thinks, and annoyance, and maybe anger. He’s still got his arm around Eric’s shoulders, like he’s afraid Eric might try and make a break for it — which seems unlikely, since his legs feel kind of rubbery when he stands. He lets Vince steer him to the car and he’s a little surprised not to find Turtle inside. He’s even more surprised when Vince gets behind the wheel.  
  
“You can’t —” Eric says, but Vince puts the car in gear and says, “Like you can,” and they’re off. Vince isn’t a great driver, but he can do it in a pinch. They drive very slowly, and Eric rests his head against the window. It hurts a little. OK, he amends as Vince turns a little too sharply and the car lurches over curb, a lot. It hurts a lot. His mouth hurts, and he touches his lip, expecting to find blood, but gets nothing. What? he thinks, looking down at his hand, and then for a second he can’t remember why he’s looking.  
  
At the house, Eric takes Vince’s help getting out. Fuck, when did he get so old that a stupid fight made him feel like his head was broken? He used to be a lot tougher than this. He says this to Vince as they’re walking through the front door, and Vince shakes his head.  
  
“You used to be a lot smarter than this, too,” Vince says. He walks him to the guest bathroom and sits Eric on the side of the tub, and Eric wants to protest except that he thinks that’s probably going to be counterproductive. Besides, it feels good to sit down again. “Jesus Christ,” Vince says, turning on the sink. “I should take you to the hospital.”  
  
Vince hands him a washcloth, and Eric uses it to wipe his face, from top to bottom, exploring his skin for sore spots. “I’m fine,” he says.  
  
“You are not. He knocked you out.”  
  
“He did not.”  
  
“Yeah, right,” Vince says. “Stay here.” He walks out, and Eric sits, quietly. He looks down and is surprised by how much blood there is on the cloth; the entire white surface is pink or red, now. He stands up, with help from the towel bar, and then steadies himself on the sink cabinet. In the mirror he looks about as bad as he should have expected: blood still smeared under his nose and across his forehead, his lip starting to puff up, his right eye and eyebrow a mess. He rinses the cloth and washes his face carefully. It’s not that bad. The only continuous bleeding is from a cut across his right eyebrow and another smaller cut under his eye. His lip is scabbed but not bleeding, and his nose isn’t going anymore, at least. Fucking Drama. Always was a guy who liked to hit the face. He touches his jaw with two fingers, then rubs his fingers around his skull until he finds a small bump forming on the side of his head. He gasps when he presses on it, and that’s the moment when Vince walks back in.  
  
“You OK?”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“Come out here, all right?”  
  
Eric follows Vince into the living room — or tries to, but the floor ripples unexpectedly underneath him, and he has to grab Vince’s arm to keep from falling. “E? What is it? You dizzy?”  
  
“Kind of.”  
  
“Fuck.” Vince holds onto his arm, and Eric takes a seat in the space Vince must have just cleared on the big couch. Sure enough, there are video game controllers and an empty bowl from last night’s popcorn crowded into the armchair. Vince sits on the coffee table, facing him. “You’re gonna have a hell of a shiner,” he says, and then shakes his head. “Lay down, all right? You want something to drink?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Eric says, but he does lay down. “Maybe some Aspirin or something.”  
  
“Maybe,” Vince says. He stands up and walks to the entryway, and Eric can hear him on the phone. “No, it’s Vince. E’s hurt, I need a doctor. No. No, fuck you. He hit his head. In a fight — shut up and call the fucking doctor, OK? We’re at home.”  
  
“Ari?” Eric guesses, when Vince walks back in.  
  
“Yeah.” And Jesus, there’s a conversation he doesn’t want to have. Worse: they’ve got to call Shauna. Eric groans. “What, you think I should take you to the emergency room, broadcast this a little further? At least Ari will find someone quiet.”  
  
Eric sighs. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to call anyone.”  
  
“You have a concussion,” Vince says. “All these weeks of boxing training, you think none of it’s sticking? You were unconscious —”  
  
“I was not.”  
  
“Whatever. You’re dizzy and your eyes are weird. You have any amnesia?”  
  
“How would I know?” Eric asks, but he doesn’t think so. He remembers pretty much everything, going to the gym, sparring with Drama — and then the trainer waking him up. Huh.  
  
“Stay fucking still, I’m gonna get some ice for your face.”  
  
Eric looks at his hands: the knuckles are scraped, but he put his ring in his pocket before they got started, so at least that’s OK. He can’t remember the fight itself, not yet, and he’s glad; he’s not sure he wants to remember what Drama looked like or how it went down, or how he ended up getting the bad end. Jesus, beat up by Johnny fucking Chase. If this were back home, no one would ever let him hear the end of it.  
  
He hears the front door open. Turtle and Drama walk in, both looking weird. Drama’s face, Eric can see, is mostly OK — he might have a swollen lip, but it’s hard to tell. He tries to sit up, but his arm just shakes and won’t hold him, so he stays put.  
  
“Fuck, E, you all right, man?” Turtle asks.  
  
“I’m fine,” Eric says. “Not that anyone believes me.”  
  
Vince emerges from the kitchen with ice. “He has a concussion,” he says, and hands over a cold towel. Eric presses it to his forehead, because that’s where it hurts, and is surprised when Vince sighs and takes it back and then presses it to the side of his head.  
  
“Ow.”  
  
“Yeah,” Vince says. “Jesus Christ, Johnny.”  
  
“Hey, Vince,” Drama says, voice tentative. “Is he all right?”  
  
“I don’t know yet,” Vince says.  
  
“Is there anything we should be doing?” Turtle asks.  
  
“Just let the doctor in when he comes.”  
  
“Vince,” Drama says, and he sounds scared, almost pleading, now. “Are you mad at me? I didn’t mean anything, you know I —”  
  
“You picked a fight with my boyfriend and called him a fag,” Vince says. “What’d you think was going to happen?”  
  
“I dunno,” Drama says. “I just got caught up in stuff, and — bro, you gotta know I’m sorry.”  
  
Eric watches Vince’s eyes close and wonders if Vince is sleepy. He’s sleepy. He wishes the ice would go away, and maybe the other guys. “Not now, Johnny, all right?”  
  
There’s a sharpness to Vince’s voice that Eric doesn’t like, doesn’t really recognize. He tries to reach out and grab Vince’s hand, but there’s suddenly a troubling shadow of Vince right next to him, and Eric’s hand passes through air where he thinks Vince should be.  
  
“Uh-oh,” he says.  
  
“E?”  
  
“I have a concussion,” he murmurs, watching his hand leave a wavy trail in the air. He can’t really focus on anything. “Shit.”  
  
“It’s OK,” Vince says. “You’re gonna be fine.”  
  
Of course, he is fine. The doctor comes over and confirms Vince’s diagnosis, tells them it’s probably not too serious because Eric’s not terribly confused and hasn’t forgotten that much and wasn’t unconscious very long — “or maybe not at all,” as Eric insists — and he says they should wake him up every few hours for a while and give him Advil as needed and ice the bumps on his head and his eye to keep the swelling down. “No drinking,” he says, “no drugs, no partying. You should take it easy for a while.”  
  
“OK,” Eric agrees. He’s really not planning on moving from the couch, the way he feels — still a little dizzy and shaky. But once the doctor’s gone, Vince helps him off the couch and gets him back to bed, and Eric has to admit that feels even better. Then Vince leaves him (with an ice pack) and Eric can hear him laying into Drama down the hall.  
  
“I told you to knock it off,” Vince yells.  
  
“He’s fucking with my career, bro, he’s fucking asking for it!”  
  
“He’s got a concussion. You really think he was asking for that, Johnny?”  
  
“Damn it, it was stupid, I know that, but —”  
  
“Just get out and let me think, all right?”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Yes,” Vince says, and his voice is so cold and grown up that Eric opens his eyes. “Seriously. Get out. I have to take care of E right now.”  
  
When he walks back in, Eric says, “It’s maybe not all his fault.”  
  
“You think I don’t know?” Vince sits on the bed, and he repositions the ice pack, then gently rubs Eric’s scalp, his fingers very different from his tone. “If you hadn’t broken your brain, I’d be yelling at you, too.”  
  
“Thank God for head trauma.”  
  
Vince is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Let’s talk about this in the morning, OK?”  
  
“OK.”  
  
Eric sleeps fitfully — he probably would have slept poorly even if Vince didn’t set the alarm to go off every two hours, but that certainly doesn’t help — and finally gets out of bed the next day at noon. Vince is sitting on the deck, reading the newspaper. “What’s up,” Eric says, taking a seat next to him.  
  
“You look like shit.”  
  
“Feel like it.”  
  
“You take anything yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Vince gets up and returns with Advil and a glass of water, and Eric swallows a couple and settles back in his chair. “I’m sorry I hit your brother,” Eric says.  
  
“Yeah. He’s pretty sorry he hit you, too,” Vince says. “But something tells me that’s not gonna keep it from happening again, the way things are going.”  
  
Eric sighs. “I’m trying, Vin. I’m trying not to listen to all of the shit, but — but he knows exactly how to get at me, and he thinks I’ve been fucking with his career.”  
  
“Have you?”  
  
“No! Jesus Christ, why would I do that?” He looks across at Vince but can’t read his expression behind the sunglasses. “He wants you to call Jane McAllister, put in a good word for him on the new show.”  
  
Vince frowns. “I don’t think she’d do much to help me.”  
  
“I told him,” Eric says. “But he thinks I’m just out to get him, after the Courier thing.”  
  
“I can get him to back off,” Vince says. “I can handle Johnny. But you’ve gotta figure your deal out, too.”  
  
“My deal?”  
  
“Yeah.” Vince shakes his head. “I want you to talk to someone.”  
  
“Who?” Eric asks, genuinely perplexed. “Like, to get Drama a job? Listen, fine, I’ll do whatever I can, short of fucking up —”  
  
“No,” Vince says, “I mean I want you to talk to a professional. Like — a therapist.”  
  
Eric laughs, then rubs his temples. “We’re back to this? You really think I need therapy?”  
  
Vince shrugs. “I think you need to get this desire to beat people up out of your system. Once and for all. We’re grown-ups, now, E, you can’t settle every fucking thing like it’s the playground back home.”  
  
“He called me — he called  _us_  fags, Vince. I’m supposed to just let that slide?”  
  
“From a guy who’s just saying it to piss you off — yeah,” Vince says. “You’re supposed to let it fucking go, or to talk it out. No more of this street stuff.”  
  
Eric takes a deep breath, which hurts a little. “Look what if I just — I promise not to hit anyone. OK? Even if they deserve it.”  
  
“No.” Vince takes off his sunglasses and looks terribly serious. “If you’re afraid of going —”  
  
“I’m not afraid,” he says. “I just don’t see the point. Drama  _started_  it.”  
  
“You  _beat up my brother_ , Eric!” Vince turns so he’s facing Eric and he looks furious. “We’re not eight year olds! You don’t get to hit people anymore, no matter who started it. And — and Jesus fucking Christ, right now? Right now you choose to go after him? With everything that’s happening? I’m already getting the fucking silent treatment from my mother, and then you go and fight with Johnny, when sometimes he feels like the only family I’ve got left?”  
  
“It’s not like I jumped him out of nowhere. He threw a fucking punching bag at me, he called me —”  
  
“And if you’re going to fight everyone in the world who calls you or me a fag, E, then you gotta get some better fucking medical insurance and a bodyguard or a fucking suit of armor, because I can’t take seeing you laid out. OK? I’m not going through this every time. I’m certainly not going through it whenever my brother wants to hang out. You could’ve had brain damage. He could’ve. There could’ve been cameras around. Hell, we’ll probably still see this in the tabloids.” Vince jabs the air with his sunglasses. Eric can’t remember the last time he saw Vince this mad. “Think of every worst case scenario, OK? If you need a reason to go.”  
  
“OK,” Eric says. He doesn’t have to think of anything past the raw emotion in Vince’s eyes. “OK, OK. I’ll go. I’ll — whatever, whatever you want.” He swallows. His head is throbbing. Vince looks fucking savage, angry and maybe scared and certainly righteous. “You think Margot would see me?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, and he blinks and his face gets easier.  
  
Eric nods. “Vince,” he says, his voice unsteady, and Vince nods back, but Eric doesn’t believe that they’re fine. Eric tentatively touches his forearm. “Hey,” he says, and Vince nods again, takes a deep breath, slides his sunglasses back on. “You know it’s not because he’s your brother. I didn’t — I’m not trying to make things harder for you.”  
  
“I know,” Vince says, and he turns his arm over and grips Eric’s wrist. “It’s just weird, right now. I just — I need you guys to get along.”  
  
“We’ll fix it, I swear,” he says.  
  
“Do that,” Vince says. He sits back, lets go of Eric’s arm as he does, and Eric eases back into his own seat. For a while, they just sit there, Eric with his eyes closed, feeling tired and hurting and wondering what, exactly, he just got himself into. He doesn’t want to fight with Vince — honestly, he didn’t want to fight with Drama. And now he’s gonna have to go see somebody about it?  
  
“Hey,” Vince says, and Eric feels his hand drop onto his shoulder. “Are you OK?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eric says. “Just tired, still. I might go lay down.”  
  
Vince nods. He doesn’t get up and follow Eric as he leaves, but he does say, “Yell if you need anything,” and Eric takes that as a good sign.  
  


* * *

  
  
Eric lays around the house feeling shitty all day, though he’s careful not to complain about it. Vince is nice to him anyway, bringing him water and Advil on a regular schedule and rubbing his neck that night when they watch TV. The next day, they’re supposed to meet with Ari — which Eric wants badly to cancel, since his eye has a nice black ring around it and his head is still pretty sore — and Vince has to go back to the gym. “I’ll skip that, if that’s OK,” Eric says.  
  
“Probably for the best,” Vince says.  
  
“But uh, listen, for dinner,” Eric says, “I thought, maybe we could get together with the guys.” Vince looks at him, and Eric can’t read the expression. “I’ll call them, I meant. I should call Drama anyway.”  
  
Vince nods. After a minute, he puts his hand on Eric’s neck, then kisses the side of his head. “Reschedule the thing with Ari, all right?”  
  
So Eric calls Turtle, first, and sets up dinner, and then he calls Drama while he’s sitting at the kitchen counter. “Uh, hey,” he says, when Drama answers. “It’s E.”  
  
“Yeah. Uh, how you feeling?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Eric says. “You?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Good.” Eric barely stops himself from asking if Drama’s had to see a doctor or anything, because that would actually be his pride talking. “So, uh, listen. I thought — maybe, you wanna come over for lunch?”  
  
“Vince there?”  
  
“No,” Eric says. “Just you and me. Maybe talk some of this stuff out?”  
  
There’s a pause, then Drama says, “Yeah. Say an hour?”  
  
“Sounds good.” Now, the pause feels like it’s on his side. He says, finally, “Thanks, Drama.”  
  
Eric thinks about making something — sandwiches or pasta or whatever’s handy — but he’s still a little dizzy, and Drama doesn’t like his cooking anyway. So he calls for pizza and texts Drama to let him know they don’t have anything to drink in the house except the Hefeweisen he doesn’t like. By the time Drama arrives, the pizza guy is just pulling out. Drama brings a six pack of Guinness, and Eric wishes he’d thought to have that on hand: buying Drama stuff can go a long way toward making him happy.  
  
“How’s your head?” Drama asks, following him to the kitchen.  
  
Eric shrugs and takes a seat at the dining table. “Still attached. You?”  
  
Drama shrugs, too, then winces. “Sore rib, but I’ll live.”  
  
“You get it looked at?”  
  
“Talked to a trainer the other day. It’s fine.” Drama opens the pizza box, nods his approval of Eric’s choice. “They use fresh mushrooms,” he says. “That doesn’t seem important, but you can really tell a difference.”  
  
Eric cracks open a soda. “Their sausage is pretty good.”  
  
Drama nods. He slides a piece out onto a plate. “Still not like home.”  
  
“Nothing is,” Eric says. He gets himself a slice, but doesn’t start eating; he’s not really hungry. For Vince, he thinks, and takes a deep breath. “Look, Drama. I’m sorry. About the fight, and about — about the pilot. I should’ve talked it over with you.” Drama nods, and before he can say anything, Eric continues. “I swear to you, though, I’m not trying to block your career. I’m just doing what I’ve always done, I’m just looking out for Vince.”  
  
“And I’m just doing what I’ve always done,” Drama says. “People know shit now, so maybe I say it outside of the house, but fuck it, man, since when can’t you take a joke? I mean, what’s the big fucking deal, anyway?” Eric stares at his pizza, not sure where to start. “I’m not fucking giving you a hard time just because you two are — whatever you are.”  
  
“We’re in love, Drama,” he says, very quietly. It’s the first time he’s said it to anyone other than Vince, at least in these terms, but right now it feels necessary. It feels like something he needs to say. “I love him. I’m not dicking around, it’s not just about sex or friendship. You get that, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says. He takes a bite, then swallows, and nods again. “I get it. I do.”  
  
“OK.” Eric takes a bite himself, tries to concentrate just on the pizza. He thinks he’s maybe blushing, but fuck it. It’s true, and Drama needs to know it. Drama’s a big sap half the time anyway.  
  
After a minute of the two of them just chewing and not making eye contact, Drama says, “Vince still mad?”  
  
“At you?” Eric shrugs. “He’s pissed at both of us, I think.”  
  
“He didn’t kick you out.”  
  
“Head injury,” Eric says, and Drama smirks. “Trust me, I think I would’ve rather gotten kicked out.”  
  
Drama raises an eyebrow. “He make you sleep on the couch?”  
  
“No, he’s making me go to fucking therapy.”  
  
Drama snorts. “Jesus, you are whipped,” he says, and Eric actually laughs. “What, so, you gotta go talk to some shrink? About what?”  
  
“Fighting with you, I guess,” Eric says. It sounds even dumber out loud. “I don’t know, he thinks I have some kind of hitting problem.”  
  
“Hey,” Drama says, his voice sharp, “you haven’t ever hit Vince, right?”  
  
“What? Jesus, no,” Eric says. “Not since grade school.”  
  
“Because that shit wouldn’t be OK.” Drama’s voice is actually stern, now, and Eric rolls his eyes.  
  
“I swear to you, I’ve never hit Vince, I never would,” Eric says. “Though I’m sure he’d think it’s sweet you’re concerned.”  
  
Drama shakes his head. “He can’t fight for shit,” he says. “I tried to teach him, as a kid, but — he’s got no sense of timing.”  
  
Eric laughs around a mouthful of cheese. “I tried, too,” he admits. He can remember the lessons — fourth grade, after school, trying to show Vince how to land a good punch. They eventually scaled back to lessons on how to take a punch, instead, lessons that came in handy for the next five years, until his dad moved out and he transferred to the performing arts high school. “Pretty hard to believe he’s cutting it in the boxing movie, right?”  
  
“Yeah, but he looked good at the gym the other day,” Drama says. “I mean, he does OK when it’s acting.” He shrugs. “That’s kind of always been his thing, he can act out stuff that he can’t do for real better than he could if he was doing it for real.”  
  
“That’s sort of the job,” Eric says.  
  
“Me, I’m more method,” Drama continues, almost like he hasn’t heard him. “I gotta have a basis in fact for what I’m doing. That’s why I passed on Pirates, back in the day. Before they had Johnny Depp attached.”  
  
It’s so clearly a lie that Eric’s first instinct is to nail him on it, but he stops himself. They need to get along. “I can understand that,” he says, leaning back in his chair. Just Drama being Drama, he thinks, and grins.  
  


* * *

  
  
A week later, they go to therapy, even though Eric’s started to really have second thoughts. He’s getting along with Drama again, after all; it doesn’t seem like there’s any real point. But Vince says Margot’s been wanting to see them together, anyway, so he just brings Eric along to his next appointment. “Look,” he promises that morning, “just this one time, OK? Come this once.”  
  
“Just once and then I’m cured?” Eric asks, smirking.   
  
Vince rolls his eyes. “You said you’d go,” he says, and Eric nods.  
  
“OK, OK,” he says. “One time.”  
  
Eric’s a little nervous, though he won’t admit it to Vince. He looks around the office like a tourist when they walk in: it’s pretty much what he expected, a long beige couch facing a matching tan chair, a desk toward the back of the room, bookshelves filled with plants and journals, all of the decor high-end and classy and strangely impersonal. He takes a seat next to — but not terribly close to — Vince on the couch.  
  
Margot smiles and introduces herself to Eric, and there’s an unspoken  _I’ve heard so much about you_  when they nod at each other. She’s a little younger than he guessed, probably early 40s, with straight black hair that’s held back with a barrette and a pale, plain face. He wonders if he’s what she thought he’d be, and he feels instantly awkward, because he gets it, suddenly, that this woman really  _has_  heard a lot about him, while he’s heard very little about her. In fact, all he knows for sure is that she really helped Vince, during and after his rehab stint, and he tries to keep that in mind. She’s good at this, he thinks, but he’s not even sure what that means.  
  
“OK,” Margot says, looking at Vince. “How are things?”  
  
Vince nods. “Good,” he says. “I mean, I’m good. E?”  
  
“Uh, fine,” he says. He crosses his ankle over his knee. “I’m fine.”  
  
Margot nods. “What would you like to talk about?”  
  
Eric gives Vince a look. You pay for this? he wants to ask. Vince smirks, just a little. “Uh, well. I don’t know.”  
  
“OK,” she says. “The last time you were here, you said things were a little strained between the two of you.”   
  
Eric’s hand clenches on his calf. “Strained?” he says.  
  
“We had that fight about the premiere party.” OK. Eric remembers that, from about a month back. Vince wanted to go and hang out, and Eric wanted to stay home. They ended up going to the party and having a crappy time, because Turtle smoked Vince up in the car and Eric spent most of the evening trying to fend off his wandering hands while party girls and cameraphones swirled around them.  
  
“Because you were high,” Eric says, and Vince flinches and glances guiltily toward Margot. And, shit, Eric forgot, this is his rehab counselor — maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the drugs. It’s not a problem anymore, though — or, at least, not in the way it was a year and a half ago. Vince drinks socially, he smokes socially, but he doesn’t get out of control.  
  
“And about the video,” Vince says, quickly.  
  
Eric rolls his eyes. “That wasn’t really a fight.” He leans forward, wanting Margot to understand that everything was blown out of proportion. “We aren’t really people who fight a lot.”  
  
“How would you characterize it?” she asks.  
  
Eric shrugs. He glances over, and Vince nods to encourage him. “He thought I didn’t like it. I did. It was a misunderstanding.”  
  
“That’s not completely true,” Vince says. Eric shoots him a look, one that usually wins him a united front in Ari’s office. Vince glances back, and Eric can almost read his mind: this isn’t business. “You were pissed off.”  
  
“I wasn’t,” Eric says. He leans back, keeps facing Margot. “Look, I said I liked it.”  
  
“That’s not the same as actually liking it,” Vince says.  
  
Eric sighs and uncrosses his leg. One of Vince’s hands lifts briefly from the couch, and Eric thinks he’s going to reach over; he edges away out of instinct, watches Vince’s hand fall back to the cushion.  
  
“This was about a film?” Margot prompts.  
  
“Music video,” Vince says. Margot nods. “Eric thought it was too sexy.”  
  
“That’s crap,” Eric says. “When have I ever —”  
  
“Then  _what_?” Vince asks, turning toward him. “What, E, I can’t read your mind, OK? You were pissed, you were weird, you were —”  
  
“I was all that and you can’t read my mind? Jesus,” Eric says. He crosses his arms and looks at Margot, thinking, do you see what I have to put up with? “It had nothing to do with the content. It was just — he should have never done it in the first place.”  
  
“Why?” Margot asks, and Eric leans forward again. He’s been waiting to make this case for a month.  
  
“It was a desperation move,” he says. “Ari — Vince’s agent — said he ought to do it just to keep his name out there.”  
  
“She knows who Ari is,” Vince says. “And you did have a problem with the love scenes.”  
  
Eric shakes his head. “Whatever,” he says.  
  
Margot says, “What makes you think that, Vince?”  
  
“We watched it together. He got really quiet and tense. And when Ari mentioned he thought it was hot, E got all weird about it.”  
  
“Ari’s a dick,” Eric says.  
  
“You did the same thing when Turtle said it was hot.”  
  
“Turtle, the great cinema auteur.”  
  
“And you stopped touching me,” Vince says, and Eric feels himself blush.  
  
“What do you mean?” Margot asks.  
  
Vince turns, so he’s facing Eric as much as Margot. “We were on the couch together, and he got up and walked away. And the next night, he was sleeping when I got home, and he kept his back to me the whole night.”  
  
“Come on,” Eric says. “It was late.”  
  
“I’m just saying, E, it sends a message.”  
  
Eric sighs again and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says. “OK? Can we move on?”  
  
Vince smirks, the bastard. “Clearly, you’ve never been in therapy before,” he says, his voice low and amused.  
  
“What did you like about the video?” Margot asks.  
  
Eric leans back on the couch. “It was a nice paycheck,” he says. Margot keeps looking at him. Her face is completely, pleasantly blank, but something in her expression, or the tilt of her head, or — something, something tells him that she will stay that way forever, until he says something, whatever the right answer is. Eric shifts. He taps his fingers over his knee. He looks over at Vince but doesn’t meet his eyes. Vince stays perfectly still.  
  
“OK,” Eric finally says.  
  
“OK what?” Vince asks.  
  
“I hated the video,” he says, surprised at the vehemence in his voice.  
  
Vince leans back. “Yeah?” Eric nods, risks a glance at his face. He doesn’t look hurt or surprised. “Like, what —”  
  
“Everything,” he says. “It’s cheesy. It’s been done. It’s derivative and corny. The audience is too young. The lighting was bad. And I hate that it’s the first thing people are going to see since you came out.”  
  
“We,” Vince corrects, almost absently, and Eric nods. “Because I’m with a girl?”  
  
He nods. “I know it’s acting. I know that. But everyone’s been like, Oh, look how hot Vince is with that girl, and you know what? That’s not so cool. It’s fucking weird.” It  _is_  fucking weird. Other people telling him how good his boyfriend looks with some girl? The suggestive way they talk about it, the images it puts in their minds, of Vince the playboy, of Vince the straight guy —  
  
Vince does reach out, now, puts a hand on Eric’s leg. “You know I don’t —”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, “ _I_  know.”  
  
“I’ve been in scenes like that before. I mean, people always talk about stuff like that.”  
  
He nods. “But when nobody knew we were together, then I — it was like, they said stuff and they didn’t know any better. People’d say, they make a pretty couple, and it didn’t mean anything. Now, Ari cracks jokes all the time and he knows, and that’s messed up.”  
  
“How does the video relate to that?” Margot asks.  
  
Eric shrugs. “Ari set that up,” he says. “And he did it on purpose. He knew there’d be this model, he knew exactly what things were going to look like — he packaged it, as if to say, here’s proof that Vince still likes girls.”  
  
“E,” Vince says, “we looked at the script together.”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, quietly, “and I said you shouldn’t do it.”  
  
Vince blinks. “You didn’t say this was why.”  
  
Eric shrugs. “I didn’t think it would matter.”  
  
“Why not?” Margot asks.  
  
“It was a business decision,” Eric says.  
  
“So your feelings don’t enter into things like that?”  
  
“They shouldn’t,” Eric says, and Vince sits back.  
  
“E,” he says, but Eric plows ahead.  
  
“The job should be separate,” Eric says. “Otherwise, how the fuck can I keep doing it?”  
  
Now Margot leans in, drawing Eric’s attention. “You feel a need to compartmentalize your relationship?” she asks.  
  
Eric shrugs. “I guess.”  
  
“Tell me more about that.”  
  
So Eric tries. He tries to explain how there’s this remove he needs, how he can’t be both Vince’s best friend and his manager at the same time. How it’s never worked that way. There are things that are good for Vince’s career, things that Vince, as an actor, wants, and there are things that Eric, as a manager, has to do to get them. There are people he has to be nice to even though they don’t like Vince, and there are people he doesn’t like he has to work with because Vince needs them. His personal feelings need to stay out of it.  
  
“And so this additional layer to your relationship, that must make things harder,” Margot says.  
  
“Yes,” Eric says. It’s somehow a relief to hear someone agree, because everyone else — even Vince — seems to think that Eric’s job must be easier now that he has an all-access pass. “I mean, sometimes.”  
  
“Can you talk a little about that?”  
  
“Uh, I guess. I mean, I’m good at what I do, and I’ve been good at it even when we’re not getting along. It’s always been this way. I look out for his interests first, as a manager. I can’t always do that, if I’m thinking like —” He waves his hand between them, and Margot says, “Like he’s your lover.”  
  
“Yeah,” he says. He looks over at Vince, who’s giving him a funny look. “Do you get that?” he asks.  
  
Vince, after a moment, nods. “Kind of,” he says. “Though — I don’t know if I agree.”  
  
“With what part?”  
  
“I don’t — I don’t know,” Vince says, talking slowly, like he does when he’s thinking and talking at the same time. “I guess — I don’t get why you think everything has to be so separate. I didn’t hire you just because you’re a good manager, E. I mean, you are, but I hired you because you’re my friend, my best friend, and you know me. So I don’t get why — or even how — you can split those two things up.”  
  
Eric rubs his forehead. “I hate Ari,” he says, and Vince laughs. “No, I’m serious. I hate him. I think he’s actually kind of a bad person, and I think, if he had his way, I’d be managing a fucking pizza cart, and you and I — you wouldn’t even remember my name. OK?” Vince shrugs. “So here’s the thing. You’re my best friend, you’re my —” he tries, he really does, not to pause, but it’s still unusual to him “— boyfriend, and this guy fucking picks on me all the time, makes my life a living hell, gives me nightmares.” Eric crosses his arms. “What are you going to do about that,  _dear_?”  
  
“That’s different.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Because Ari’s Ari,” Vince says, exasperated. “He’s mean to everyone, not just you. Come on, he picks on me, too.”  
  
“Exactly,” Eric says. “And you think I don’t want to deck him, half the time, for the shit he says? You think there’s not some part of me that wants to introduce that smarmy little mouth to my fist every time he makes another fucking gay joke about us? About you? But I don’t, because when we’re in that office, I’m not your fucking boyfriend, I’m there about your career. I’m there about the job.”  
  
“And you don’t hit people on the job anymore?” Vince asks, smirking, and Eric rolls his eyes.  
  
“I know that’s what you wanted to talk about,” Margot says, “but maybe we can leave that for now. I really want both of you to think about this, these different roles, a bit.”  
  
“Right now?” Eric asks, glancing at his watch.  
  
“For next time,” she says. “Eric, for next week, maybe you could make a list as you go through the week, things you see yourself doing in a ‘managerial role’ and things you see as part of your role as lovers.”  
  
Eric glances over, thinking, next week?, but Vince is just looking at Margot. “Me?” he asks.  
  
“Think about the ways that you might be encouraging or benefitting from that.” She smiles. “I think you’re right, Vince, every week might be a good idea for a while. So next Tuesday?”  
  
“Yeah, sounds good,” Vince says, standing up. It takes Eric a second to follow suit, because he’s still focused on the next week exchange. By the time they get to the car, he’s angry.  
  
“Next week,” he mutters, and Vince shrugs. “You said we’d try it once, but you already set this all up, didn’t you?”  
  
“We need this,” he says. “Weren’t you listening in there today? E —”  
  
“Weren’t  _you_  listening?” Eric asks, pulling out of the lot. “Jesus Christ, that was — I’m feeling way more likely to hit someone right now than I was when we went in.”  
  
Vince shakes his head. “Bitch all you want. I’m not trying to make your day, here. I’m trying to make sure things work with us. And I know you think you’re Mr. Perfect and you’re so easy going, but for fuck’s sake, E, we need to talk this shit through.”  
  
Eric clenches his jaw to keep from snapping at Vince. Make things work? Make things worse is more like it. He tries to imagine going back there, having that woman stare at him and ask him personal stuff and dig into all their private business. Like he doesn’t have enough people staring at him right now? Like he’s not already on display every fucking minute of every fucking day, now they have to go and tell some stranger all their secrets?  
  
When they reach the house, Eric is still simmering with anger, and he looks over and can see Vince is about the same. He’s been exhaling in short, livid bursts the whole way home, and it’s annoying as fuck and also a little bit sexy. He realizes that Vince is thrumming with anger, too — anger, and something else. Something a little dangerous. He gets out and meets Eric’s eyes, and Eric knows he’s giving off the same vibe from the slight narrowing of Vince’s eyes. They’re barely in the door before Eric grabs him, pins him back against the wall in the entryway while Vince tries to latch on to his mouth. They stumble backwards into the living room and Eric pushes him down onto the ottoman, then puts one knee between Vince’s legs and leans him back. Vince’s head is on the seat of the armchair, his back is at a funny angle, and he’s so turned on that he moans when Eric just reaches for his fly. Eric yanks Vince’s pants off, fumbles too long with his own and curses when Vince hooks his calf around Eric’s and pulls him closer. And Eric gets the signals, sure: Vince wants to be fucked, and Eric is totally on board with that, suddenly, wants to be inside him with all of that anger. He pulls back just a bit, frantically shoving off his pants, then looks around in a panic. There’s no lube in the living room.  
  
“Just come on,” Vince says, clutching at him, his voice low and desperate.  
  
So Eric spits in his hand and a moment later enters Vince, and they both hiss and buck and Vince tips his head all the way back and groans, a good groan, mostly pleasure. Eric wastes no time, just starts thrusting, so hard and so fast Vince has to grab his biceps to keep from being shoved to the floor. When they kiss, it’s bruising, hardly a kiss at all, and then Eric puts his forehead against Vince’s shoulder, pulls all the way out and thrusts back in. Vince cries out, bites at Eric’s neck, loops one arm around him to hold himself up and manages to get his hand onto his own dick, which is great because all of Eric’s attention is simply on holding Vince up and fucking him. Eric comes first, hard, slumping forward, and Vince jerks himself a few times and comes on himself, on Eric, and on the ottoman.  
  
After a minute, Eric pulls back and out, and when Vince’s hands slide away from his shoulders he loses his balance and they topple onto the floor in a tangle of sweaty arms and legs, eventually both rolling to their backs. They haven’t done angry sex in, well, Eric isn’t sure he can remember a time, and he suddenly feels alarmed, maybe a little ashamed, about how rough he was. He starts to sit up, but Vince’s arm is suddenly thrown over his chest.   
  
“Stop,” he says, and Eric stays tense for a minute, then lays a hand on Vince’s wrist to show he’s staying put.   
  
“You OK?” Eric asks.  
  
“God, yes,” Vince says. “You?”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
“You still mad?”  
  
“I’m too fucked out to be mad,” he murmurs, and Vince laughs, just once. Eric tips on his side and looks down at Vince. They look ridiculous, both still wearing their shirts but no pants, Eric still in his socks, sweat beading on their foreheads and thighs. Vince is lying on his back, his eyes closed. He doesn’t look hurt or angry; he just looks well-fucked.  
  
He rubs Vince’s biceps, his fingers sliding up under his shirt. He’s surprised to find Vince’s face still red, and he’s more surprised when Vince’s eyes open and they’re wide and vulnerable.  
  
“Vin?”  
  
“Fucking therapy,” Vince says, and takes a deep breath. He keeps looking at Eric, and it’s making Eric nervous, so he leans forward and kisses him gently. Vince cups his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You were right.”  
  
“About what?” Eric asks.  
  
“I’ve been talking to Margot about this — about us seeing her together — for a while, I think it’s something we need to do.” Eric draws back, feeling a quick flash of hurt at the idea that Vince has wanted this for that long. “I should’ve been up front with you.”  
  
Eric pauses. “You really think we need counseling?” Vince shrugs, and Eric rubs his shoulder. “Come on, just tell me.”  
  
“I want this to work,” he murmurs.  
  
“It does work.”   
  
Vince looks down. “Going to talk with her doesn’t mean things haven’t been working,” he says. “It’s just figuring out whether they could be any better.”   
  
Eric feels exasperated and bewildered, blindsided. “But we’re OK, right? I mean, we’ve been working.”  
  
“Yeah,” Vince says, “but I want it to work forever.”  
  
Eric freezes, just briefly, and then he says, “Oh,” and swallows.  
  
Vince reaches out for Eric, cups his neck, now, until Eric meets his eyes. “I’ve never — you know I’ve never been in a relationship like this, E. Except with you.”  
  
“I know,” Eric says.   
  
“And I think — I mean, I’ve gone about as far as I can with Margot, but I don’t — I don’t always know what you’re thinking,” he says. “And I think this could — we could — this could help. This could help us.”  
  
Eric can tell he really wants this. He really means this. Maybe it won’t be so bad. “OK,” he says, after a moment.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Eric nods. “But let’s re-evaluate in a month, OK?”  
  
“Sure,” Vince says. He turns and kisses Eric’s arm. “Thank you.”  
  
“Don’t thank me yet,” Eric says. “Who knows what we’ll find out.”


	5. Chapter 5

So they keep going. Week after week of talking and being stared at and then more talking. Week after week, Eric leaves feeling exhausted and sometimes raw, sometimes angry, sometimes frustrated. He doesn’t feel closer to Vince; he just feels more wary of him, afraid that anything he says is just going to end up fodder for their next awkward therapy discussion. After a month of that weirdness on top of everything else, it’s time to start promotions for _Nightfeeders_. They meet with Shauna and Ari to discuss a strategy, the basic gist of which is that Vince should do as many appearances as he can, which promises to be a challenge since everyone wants him. They agree to definite dates for Leno and Letterman and Conan, and also agree that Vince will do a couple of magazine interviews a few weeks out. Shauna says she can lay ground rules about their relationship being off limits if they want.

“No, that’s OK,” Vince says. “I can dodge around it.”

“Honey, if you give them the opening, they’re going spend the whole time on it.”

He shrugs, and Eric barely catches himself from groaning aloud. “Vin,” he starts, but Vince says, “So what? I’m not gonna say anything stupid and I don’t have anything to hide.”

“Vince, I know, but —”

“Would you even have to set ground rules like that if I was with a girl instead of E?” Vince crosses his arms. “What’s the big fucking deal, then? I’m a grown-up, guys, I can handle a fucking reporter. I’m not the story, the movie is.”

Ari’s making bug-eyes at Eric, but Eric can’t stir himself to care. Beyond that, he knows from therapy that things like this are important to Vince. He wants to be more open about their relationship, and if Eric argues against this, it’s going to seem like a rejection or something. “Sounds good,” he says, instead, ignoring Ari completely. “What else do you want?”

In the car on the way home, Eric sits in the back, Vince in the front. Eric rests his head against the window and closes his eyes. He’s just so fucking tired. All he wants out of the day — any day — is a good night’s sleep, a decent meal that isn’t interrupted by the phone, and a few hours where the only thing he has to think about is what’s on television and whether it’s time for another beer, and maybe how nice it is to be lying on the couch with Vince. Instead they run around everywhere, flashes still going off every time he gets out of a vehicle, people still giving him strange, knowing looks when they show up together places, Drama still cracking jokes every once in a while, and when he has a moment free he has therapy homework to think about. His head hurts almost all the time, and he drinks more coffee than is good for him, enough that he’s starting to have trouble sleeping. Just another month, he tells himself, taking two Excedrin with a cappuccino that afternoon. They just have to get through the premiere, and a successful launch for the movie, and then things will be better. Things will be easier.

The next night, as they walk in the door, Eric sees he has a new message on the private home phone. Vince signals that he’s heading back to the bedroom, and Eric nods and picks up the receiver in the living room to check the message. It’s his aunt, and he stares at the number for a moment.

He knows what she wants — he’s still dealing with getting his mother’s place in Queens packed up, and she really wants her son and daughter-in-law to move in over the summer. In theory, Eric’s in favor of this. They need a place to live, they’re good people, and Eric likes the idea of the place staying in the family. He and his cousin, Darren, were really close as kids and even later in life. Eric still thinks of Darren’s daughter as his niece, or the closest that he, as an only child, will ever get to having one.But the deal has been hard to make.

It’s the mixture of family and business that Eric doesn’t like. Darren and his wife don’t really have the money to pay market value for the place. Eric’s aunt, never the most delicate of women, pointed out in their last conversation that Eric can afford to take the financial hit, since he’s “shacking up with a millionaire.” It’s true; Eric doesn’t need to make a profit on the place, though it would be nice to at least clear what’s still owed on it. What pisses him off is that it’s actually his own money that makes that possible. He’s earned the money he lives on. Yeah, fine, he lives in the house Vince bought, and he drives the car Vince bought, but most of his life — most of his life is still his own. He buys his own clothes. He’s careful with what he spends on food and entertainment and drinks and all that, delineating what’s business and what’s not (it takes him several hours with a highlighter to figure everything out every time his credit card statements come). Hearing his aunt tell him he’s some kind of mooch, well, it’s the icing on the shitty tabloid-baked gold-digger cake. He silences the phone and decides he’ll call her back in the morning. He needs to talk to the appraiser, anyway, about what his mother’s place is worth by now.

His aunt’s voicemail joins a few others that came in while they were at the movies, and Eric drops the house phone next to his cell phone onto the coffee table and decides to leave it there overnight. He can charge it at the office tomorrow, or in the car. He just, for one night, doesn’t want to be in the same room with it.

Vince is already in bed, propped up by a couple of pillows, watching TV. “Who was it from?” Vince asks.

“Nobody,” Eric says. There’s a game on, so Vince won’t ask anything more, or probably even remember once Eric’s out of the bathroom. He goes through all of his nightly routine, his mind flickering through all of the things he needs to do tomorrow and all of the things he’s done that day. He wonders what his aunt had to say this time. It took her a month to call him after the Golden Globes, even though he’d been hearing from her almost every week since the funeral. Their calls are a little different, now; less chatty, more businesslike. He’s waiting for her to say something really harsh. Every time he gets off the phone with her, he thinks, inevitably, about the last conversation he had with Vince’s mother, and he gets the same nauseated feeling. _Your mother would be ashamed._

He doesn’t believe that. Really, he doesn’t. But it hurts, anyway, that Vince’s mother — who he grew up next door to, who was always his second mother, and who still isn’t talking to Vince — can be so, well, mean about things.

He splashes water over his face, then looks himself in the eye. No more of this. He doesn’t need to remind Vince. The guy still tries to call his mother every Friday night.

“Yo,” Vince says around a yawn as Eric walks in. Eric nods and sits on his side of the bed. Vince mutes the television, and his hand rubs up under Eric’s T-shirt as Eric messes with his alarm clock. It’s already 3, and they’re supposed to be at Shauna’s by 10. If he falls asleep right now, instead of in the two hours it’s been taking him, he’ll get maybe five hours of sleep. More likely, he’ll get almost none.

Vince’s arms slide around him from behind, and his chin hooks over Eric’s shoulder. “What’d you think of the movie?”

“It was OK,” he says. Vince kisses the back of his neck, and his hands slide around to Eric’s abs. “What’d you think?”

“Yeah, fine,” Vince says. He’s trying to pull Eric back onto the bed — and onto him — and Eric puts his hand on Vince’s wrist to stop him. “What?”

Eric turns, wanting to ask if maybe they can just postpone, and he can see confusion and, then, a flicker of frustration on Vince’s face. And, yeah, OK, he turned Vince down last night, and two nights ago he pretended to be asleep when Vince came to bed. So he kisses him, and lets Vince pull him down to the bed, and he does the best he can to make sure it goes as quickly as possible. If sex helped him sleep, then maybe he’d be more excited for it, but tonight, when Vince puts an arm around him, kisses his shoulder blade, and starts snuffling peacefully, Eric’s still awake. The day keeps running through his head — and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that. Just get through the premiere, he tells himself. Just get this movie open and things will be better.

 

* * *

 

That week they get through a meeting with Shauna, and a conference call with Ari, and they even tape a television appearance, and then it’s time to go to therapy again. Eric pops two Excedrin before they go in, not sure when his last dose was, but needing the kick of the caffeine to improve on his four hours of sleep.

Margot asks what they’d like to talk about, and Vince says, “We haven’t been having as much sex recently,” and Eric nearly falls off the couch.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, dropping his head into the hand propped on the couch arm. His face feels hot. The nightmare is complete. There’s nothing that’s just personal, nothing that’s private. His entire life is now up for discussion.

“We used to almost every day,” Vince says. “And now it’s like, he’s always too tired or —”

“Shut up,” Eric says. He pulls his head up, sits up as straight as he can. He can’t quite meet Vince’s eyes or Margot’s, but he looks Vince’s direction. “Shut up. We’re not talking about this.”

“Why not? You don’t think it’s a problem?”

Eric’s head is pulsing. “I think what’s a problem is that you think we have to talk about every goddamned thing,” he says, rubbing his temples. “I hate this. I feel — everything’s so — Jesus Christ, with everything that’s going on, you’re worried about this? I am fucking tired, Vince. It’s not a slight, it’s not some deeper sign that we’re in trouble, it’s not about how much I want you, I’m just fucking tired. I’m so —” He can’t think of the words. His hands are shaking; his chest feels tight. Margot is watching him. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, standing up. “You stay if you need to, but I’m done with this.”

He hears Vince call his name as he walks out, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes through the tiny, empty waiting room into the hall outside Margot’s office, and it’s there that Vince catches him, one hand around his arm, Vince’s breath coming fast. “Jesus, stop,” Vince says. Eric’s staring down the hall at the bright sunlight beyond the tinted glass doors. So far, they haven’t been followed out here, but maybe today will be the day. “E, talk to me.”

Eric shakes his head. He can’t look at Vince, still. “I’m done talking for today.”

“OK,” Vince says, his voice gentle, patronizing. “We’ll go home. OK?”

He can’t think of anything to say, so he nods, and they walk in silence to the car. Vince keeps glancing at him during the drive, but it’s really all Eric can do just to concentrate on the road. His head is pounding. Fuck, they’re gonna get home and Vince is going to want to talk about it, about everything. It’s just going to go on and on and on.

Paparazzi are waiting outside of the house — a few less than they started with, but still five guys with cameras that snap to attention as they drive through. Eric shields his face with one hand, then stops the car in the driveway but doesn’t turn it off, even when Vince opens his door. “E?” Vince says, putting his hand on Eric’s arm.

He pulls away from Vince, not roughly, just carefully. All he wants right then, really, is to go lay down in his bed, but he knows he’ll have to face a gauntlet of talking with Vince before he gets that chance. So he takes a deep breath, and says, very quietly, “Don’t take this wrong, OK, but I need some time alone.”

“Oh.” He dares a glance over, sees a brief flash of fear and sadness on Vince’s face before he gets control of his face. Eric looks away again. “Um. How much time?”

He shrugs. He just needs a little space. A chance to breathe without anyone watching him. He doesn’t have a plan, just a vague idea that he needs to get away, just for a while, from Vince, from thinking about Vince, from thinking altogether. “I’ll be home tonight.”

“E,” Vince says, and his touch on Eric’s shoulder is very light. “This isn’t — I mean, you’re not —”

Eric looks up, sees the fear in Vince’s eyes again, and he touches his arm. “I’ll be home tonight,” he says quietly, and Vince nods, again, and slowly drops his hand from Eric’s shoulder. He gets out of the car, and Eric watches him retreat into the house — their house, his house — before he turns around and drives away.

There’s not even anywhere he can go, really; he can’t check into a motel overnight, he can’t go crash with the guys. His picture was on the cover of People and there’s a crowd of gossipy photographers guarding his door. Eric ends up at his office. Actually, he ends up in Vince’s office, where there’s a couch that he can stretch out on after he shuts the blinds. The room is almost completely dark, and he turns his face to the back, closes his eyes, and tries to pretend it’s night. Maybe because there’s so much going on in his head that he can’t focus on anything, maybe because he doesn’t have Vince right next to him, reminding him of everything he has to do, or maybe because he’s finally just hit a wall of exhaustion, it doesn’t take him too long to fall asleep. He dreams about being a zookeeper, and his whole dream is saturated with the feeling that something’s gotten loose, that he needs to find the animal — a rhinoceros, or a zebra, he’s never quite sure — before anyone realizes. He wakes up to a dim room, his heart pounding, and even as the dream fades the anxiety stays put. It takes him a minute to figure out where he is, and then the rest of the day comes flooding back and he feels even worse.

“E?”

His head snaps around so fast he can feel a muscle strain in his neck. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, rubbing his neck as Vince walks in.

“Hey, there you are,” Vince says, like he’s walking into their bedroom or something, not finding Eric asleep on his office couch. “Your phone’s off.”

“Really?” Eric says. He doesn’t remember turning it off. Actually, he doesn’t remember bringing it in from the car — which is probably the problem.

Vince takes a seat on his desk, facing Eric, and leans back on his arms. “Your aunt called the house.”

“Fuck me,” Eric says. He rubs his face. Yeah, he was supposed to call her back today, and also the appraiser, and also the insurance guy and the lawyer who’s dealing with the final will stuff.

“You’re selling Darren your ma’s place?” Eric nods. “I didn’t know that was even going on, still. I mean, last I heard you were wrapping the whole deal up.”

He shrugs. “We’re just working out some details.”

“E, seriously,” Vince says, “what is going on?”

Eric narrows his eyes. “With the house?”

“With you.”

“Nothing,” Eric says. Vince sits up and crosses his arms, glaring down at him, and Eric wants to snap, but he’s so fucking drained. “What, Vince?” he says, and he knows how tired he sounds.

“You used to tell me everything.”

“Yeah, well, now I tell your shrink,” Eric says, rubbing his neck. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I want you to talk to me,” Vince says. “I thought maybe Margot could help, but clearly — clearly it’s something else.” Eric leans back, fights the urge to just lay down. “I want to know what I can do to help you, but I can’t help unless I know what’s going on with you.”

“Nothing’s going on with me,” Eric says. “I’m busy, we got movie stuff, there are fucking cameras outside my door, and I’m still working on selling Ma’s place, and that’s it.”

“That’s it. Just business as usual.”

“Basically, yeah.” Vince is staring at him in a way that reminds Eric eerily of Margot. “What? You want me to apologize for not telling you about Darren and the house?”

“No, I want to know what’s going on with you,” Vince says.

“Nothing!” Eric says. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to hold back a headache.

“Nothing. Really. Nothing made you run out of Margot’s office today like —”

“No, you made me run out,” Eric says, opening his eyes. “Christ, I never wanted to go there in the first place.”

“You hit my brother.”

“Yeah,” Eric says, nodding, standing up, “yeah. I did. I hit him after he called us both fags, after he basically called me a whore, and after he fucking threw a punching bag at me, twice. I hit him, and even though I would have hit anyone else in the entire fucking world if they’d done that same shit, I felt bad about it because you told me not to, and because, Jesus, haven’t I messed up your family enough?”

“E —”

“But you know what?” Eric tries to point at Vince but his hand is shaking, so he ends up dropping it and making a fist. “He fucking deserved it. And I don’t deserve this shit you’re putting me through. I don’t deserve having to go to fucking therapy, I don’t deserve having to worry about every goddamn thing I do or say with you. Because, Jesus, Vince, this, you and I, this used to be the easy part. This used to be the one thing I could count on, and now — “ He looks away from Vince’s wide, increasingly fear-filled eyes. Eric’s own eyes are starting to burn. “It’s so fucking hard. Everything is so goddamned —”

“All right, you don’t have to — ” Vince says, and he grabs his arm but Eric doesn’t let him pull him in.

“I didn’t even have anywhere else to go today,” he says. “It’s your house, I couldn’t go to the guys because, Jesus, Drama’s your brother, I can’t even go to a goddamned motel because it’d make the news and fuck things up. Christ, I can’t even go — I don’t even have a home in Queens anymore.”

Vince lets go of him. “You really want to be away from me that bad?”

“No,” Eric says, “Jesus, no, I don’t — I’m just — I’m saying, Vin, you’re all I’ve got, right now.” His voice breaks, indignity on top of indignity, and he clears his throat. “And the last couple of weeks, I don’t — we haven’t even — “ He clears his throat again. He feels dizzy, tired, his mouth dry, his eyes a little moist. He falls back onto the couch, puts his elbows on his knees, and risks a look up at Vince. He still looks scared, worried, tense, and above all of that, like he wants to help, still holding his hands out awkwardly. “You and me,” Eric says, his voice now rusty, wet, “this is all the family I’ve got, anymore. You’re it. You’re all I’ve got.”

“Hey, that’s not true.”

“It is,” Eric says. He rests his head in his hands. “It really feels like it is.”

He feels Vince’s arms on his shoulders, and he looks up, sees Vince crouched in front of him. “E,” he says, and then he shakes his head, slowly, like he doesn’t know what to say. That’s fine, Eric doesn’t know what to say, either. He closes his eyes, and Vince moves closer, so they’re in a weird embrace, Vince’s arms around him, Eric’s head on Vince’s shoulder.

“Tell me what I can do,” Vince says, his voice close enough to feel warm. Eric shrugs. He can’t think of anything. He doesn’t want to think at all. “Do you want to go home?” That sounds OK, so he nods. Vince draws back but cups his face, looks him in the eyes for a second, kisses his forehead. Eric knows, he remembers, that Vince loves him, that Vince wants things to work, that he’s there to help, that Eric can, if he needs to, lean on him for a while; he meets Vince’s eyes and nods, the closest he’s got right now to a thank you. Vince pulls him up, and Eric keeps a grip on his hand, looking at that instead of into Vince’s eyes.

“I gotta get some sleep,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “I just, I’m going out of my mind.”

“I’ll help,” Vince says. He keeps an arm around Eric the whole way downstairs, where Turtle’s waiting in the parking space next to Eric’s. He doesn’t say anything as they climb in, and Eric’s grateful. Vince tells him to take them home, then he pulls Eric close, and Eric rests his head on Vince’s shoulder. He doesn’t move, even when they pass through the cameras at the gate.

That night, Vince gives him one of the sleeping pills he used to help him get his schedule turned back around after their last movie, and Eric falls into a dreamless sleep that lasts for about ten hours. He wakes up knowing they’re already late to meet with Shauna and finds the bed empty next to him. Vince has left a note on the kitchen counter.

 _You needed the rest,_ it says. _I’ll see you at lunch. DON’T WORRY. V_

Eric thinks he should call and check in, and then he remembers that his phone is in his car, which is at his office. “Yeah,” Vince says, when Eric calls from the landline, “think of it as a forced day off.”

“I seriously have stuff to do.”

“I seriously don’t want you to have a heart attack before we’re even forty,” Vince says.

“How’m I supposed to meet you for lunch without a fucking car?”

“I’m bringing lunch to you,” Vince says. “Take a bath, get a beer. Relax.”

“Get a beer? It’s —” Oh. It’s one in the afternoon. Eric clears his throat. “OK,” he says. “Uh. I’ll see you in a bit.”

He takes a shower instead of a bath, but he does get a beer, and because it’s May and it’s hot, he takes it out to the pool. Forced day off? Fine, he thinks, stripping off his shirt and diving in. He swims the length of the pool twice, then climbs into a floating chair and paddles to the side where his beer is sweating and waiting for him. He closes his eyes, sips the beer, and tries very hard to think about nothing.

“Now that’s what I like to see,” Vince says when he walks through the back doors. He’s carrying a big white paper sack in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other, and he sets them on one of the lounge chairs. He strips off his shirt, and Eric smiles.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

Vince doesn’t even change into trunks, just gets in wearing his drab khaki shorts and walks over to where Eric’s floating. Eric bends down to kiss him, and that somehow turns from a greeting into a marathon that doesn’t stop even once Eric’s fallen back into the pool. The water is cold against his sun-warmed skin, but Vince’s body is hot under his hands. They back up until Eric’s pressed against the wall, a jet blowing into his thigh, and he hops up onto the edge to get away from it and to give Vince better access to his dick. Vince doesn’t waste any time getting his wet shorts off, and OK, Eric’s willing to admit maybe they haven’t been having enough sex recently because he comes in about a quarter of his usual time. Vince hefts himself up next to Eric, and when Eric can pay attention again, he leans against Vince and can see that Vince is still hard.

“You want —?”

Vince shakes his head and kisses Eric’s neck. “Later,” he says. “Lunch is getting cold.”

Lunch is supposed to be cold — it’s curried chicken sandwiches and chips — but Eric doesn’t complain. He’s exhausted, from the sun and from Vince, and after they’ve finished eating, all he wants to do is nap. Vince is stretched out on the next lounge chair over, looking pretty sleepy, too. Eric sits up and taps his knee. “Come inside,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll burn out here,” Eric says, and Vince nods and follows him inside. Eric strips off his wet shorts in the bathroom and changes into a dry pair of sweatpants, and when he walks out Vince is in clean boxers, draped over the couch in the living room. Eric climbs onto the couch and Vince shifts back, and Eric falls asleep with Vince’s arms around him, Vince’s chest warm against his back.

 

He wakes up alone on the couch, but tucked under a blanket. It’s too hot, but he knows it’s Vince’s way of showing he cares. Eric stays put. He knows once he gets off the couch, they’re gonna have to talk, and he’s just not up for it.

Vince walks in a few minutes later and says, “Hey, you’re awake,” and walks over. He puts his hand on Eric’s shoulder and kisses his cheek, and Eric realizes he’s treating him a little bit like he’s got a cold or something. It’s kind of sweet, and kind of weird. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” Eric says, even though that’s not quite accurate. He clears his throat, sees Vince’s earnest expression, and looks away. “Actually, uh, would it be OK if we didn’t, uh, talk yet?”

“At all?”

“I mean about yesterday, and — everything.”

Vince shrugs. “That’s actually part of the Don’t Worry plan.”

Eric smiles. “Best plan ever,” he says.

“I thought you might like it.” Vince stretches out beside him, reaches over him for the remote control. He flips to ESPN.

“Can we — is it against the rules for me to ask how the meeting with Shauna went?”

“It went fine,” Vince says. “Typical interviews and bullshit to do before the movie. Press rounds at the Chateau on Saturday. Letterman on Monday, with the same rounds out there.”

“In New York.”

Vince nods. “Just a couple of days.”

Eric thinks about that for a second, and he feels sad. It used to be that if they were headed out East, they’d schedule at least a weekend, time to see their families. Time for him to see his mother and for Vince to see his. Now, that won’t be possible. They have to get back here for the premiere and more press. Still, time in New York will be good. He opens his mouth to say that, to mention he can maybe even check in on the house while they’re there, get some business done, and instead he hears himself say, “I miss my mom.” And even as he says it, the tight, terrible feeling swirls back up in his chest, and his throat gets a little tight. He can’t yet picture going to New York without seeing his mother there.

Vince’s arm gets briefly tighter around him. “I know,” he says.

“You do?”

He nods, and Eric feels Vince’s cheek rest against this head. “You’ve been pretty sad,” he says.

“I have?” Vince tightens his arms around him again. “I — I guess,” he says.

“I thought it was me, for a while,” Vince says. “But then, after yesterday, I figured it out.”

“I thought we weren’t gonna talk,” Eric murmurs, closing his eyes. His voice is scratchy; his throat is starting to ache.

“You brought it up,” Vince says, and kisses his neck. “It’s OK. We don’t have to. You don’t have to say anything more.”

Eric nods, just once, and then he grips Vince’s arm and swallows hard against the rising lump in his throat. If a few tears squeeze out, no one sees it but him. No one but him, and Vince.

 

The next day, Vince has to get a haircut and meet with his stylist before Leno, which conflicts with a scheduled therapy session. He says he doesn’t mind canceling – and would have been doing so anyway, because therapy before an interview was a recipe for disaster — but Eric volunteers to drive over and tell Margot in person while Vince is at the hairdresser. He tells himself it’s just to apologize for walking out the other day, and because he doesn’t want her to think that Vince is with a guy who flies off the handle or anything, but by the time he’s on the couch he’s not even particularly lying to himself about that anymore.

“How long ago?” she asks, when he mentions that his mother died.

“October,” Eric says. “So, eight months, I guess.” He rubs his chest, nervously, waiting for the big swell of anger or emotion to rise up again. He’s feeling frighteningly empty today, empty and a little raw, and he wonders if maybe this is not the way to come to therapy. He tells Margot that, and then he says, “Vince says I’ve been kind of sad.”

“Do you think that’s accurate?”

His gut reaction is to say no. He’s been tired, he’s been stressed, he’s been angry. Sad doesn’t seem like the right word for the last few months. A guy with his life shouldn’t really be sad, should he? But that word — it comes close to what he’s feeling, down underneath everything else. “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging, and she smiles, just faintly.

“Well, that’s a good place to start.”

 

He meets Vince and the guys at Le Petit Fours for lunch, and they all walk in together, a tight foursome like always and no one seems to really be looking at them. When they leave, though, there are a few photographers clustered by the curb, and they call out his name and Vince’s, and Vince stops and says, “Guys, lay off, can you? There’s nothing to see here.” When Drama suggests they stop by Barney’s to get Vince a new shirt for his upcoming interviews, Vince says, “Nah, let’s lay low,” and Eric feels both embarrassed and grateful.

“You taking it easy on me, now?” Eric asks when they’ve dropped the guys off and are headed home.

“One thing at a time,” Vince says.

That night in bed, Eric says, “It’s not you. None of this is you.”

Vince props himself up on one elbow and looks down at him. “I haven’t exactly been making things easier on you.”

Eric rubs his face. He can’t quite look at Vince when he says, “Margot asked me if I was, uh, she thought I might be, like, thinking about — suicide.”

Vince’s hand falls gently on to Eric’s forearm. “Yeah,” he says.

“Were you worried about that?”

“No,” Vince says, then he says, “Not that. But – worried. I don’t know. I didn’t always know what was going on with you, the last few months.”

“I never thought about that,” Eric says quietly. “I wouldn’t ever leave you like that. OK?”

“Yeah,” Vince says, and he kisses Eric’s shoulder, rests his cheek there. “I know.” They lay there for a moment, Eric appreciating the even, soft lift and fall of Vince’s breathing. “Are you going to see her again?”

Eric nods. “After we get back from New York. Maybe once a week, for a while.”

“She’s very good.”

“So I’ve heard.” He turns a little, so they’re nearly face-to-face. “I swear it’s not you. You’re the best thing —”

“I love you, too,” Vince says, and pulls Eric close, so it’s easy, it’s actually not hard at all, for him to sleep.

 

The thing is, he doesn’t really feel better — if anything, realizing what the problem is has made him feel even worse, more off-balance than ever, because he can’t help thinking that it’s something that can’t be fixed. His mother isn’t going to come back to life just because he misses her. Vince and Margot both tell him the same thing — give it time — but he doesn’t have time to mourn. He doesn’t even hardly have time to breathe. The movie release is upon them, and that week is packed. Vince is scheduled to tape appearances on six different television shows over the course of the next two weeks: Leno, Letterman, Conan, Ferguson, “The Today show,” and “The Daily Show.”

“That’s a lot of time in New York,” Vince says.

“Oh, and TRL, did I forget that one?” Shauna asks.

“Seriously? Next, you’re gonna say ‘The View.’”

“No way am I putting you up against those bitches,” she says. “That’s a recipe for disaster. No. If you’re still sticking to this thing where you think you’re gonna get away with just talking about the movie, then these are the shows you do. Lauer might try and give you a hard time on Today, but you can probably laugh him off. Monday you have press at the Chateau here, Tuesday in New York at the Plaza.

“Sure,” Vince says. “Whatever you think.”

Eric knows he should be worried about the interviews, but he can’t seem to focus on it. Vince is a pro, he knows how to handle these guys, and he knows the movie is a big deal. Shauna’s handling all of the pre-interview stuff, planting a bunch of stories that will just come directly back to the movie. At dinner that night, Drama asks Vince if he’s worried about all of the interviews. “You wanna run through some stories or something, want me to pretend to be Leno? Or, I do a killer Letterman.”

“Nah,” Vince says. “It’s gonna be fine. I’ve done it before, right?”

Drama gives him a funny look, but Eric just shrugs. “Bro, you know they’re gonna wanna talk about you and E, right? I mean, no one’s interested in hearing about the movie.”

Vince shrugs. “It’s not that hard to say it’s none of their business,” he says.

“These guys do this for a living,” Drama says.

“So what? So do I.”

“I mean, they can make it pretty fucking awkward for you. I remember once, I was on The Daily Show —”

Turtle snorts. “When were you on the fucking Daily Show?”

Drama straightens his shirt, sits up like he’s offended. “I used to drink with Kilborn, sometimes, back in the day.”

Eric rolls his eyes. Vince is looking at him. “You think I should be worried?” he asks.

“No,” Eric says, almost automatically. He thinks, actually, they should both be worried, but he’s too tired to do it, and if Vince isn’t worried, well, all the better. “It’s gonna be fine.”

Drama and Turtle are bickering, now, about who was better on ESPN, Kilborn or Olbermann. “E, seriously,” Vince says, his hands dropping onto Eric’s shoulders. “Do you want to stay home?”

“What?”

“You’ve been real quiet all day. Is it the city?”

Eric looks up at Vince, who has on his best concerned face. “I swear, I’m just worried about the movie stuff,” he says, feeling himself blush a little.

“OK,” Vince says. “Then stop, because you’re gonna mess my head up, talking about this stuff.”

Eric nods, and he forces a smile, puts his hand on Vince’s leg under the table as he turns to tell the guys to knock it off. It’s going to be fine, he thinks. It has to be.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, Eric goes to the Leno taping and watches Vince artfully, carefully dodge away from Leno’s gentle hints about their relationship, keeping the focus on the movie. It’s nicely done; Vince doesn’t come off as a jackass or like he’s trying to hide anything, and they talk amiably about the movie like they’re old pals. Vince walks off set and says, “See, easy,” and Eric nods, believes it can be.  
  
They make it through six hours of press the next day in L.A., then fly to New York the next morning, just the two of them in a chartered jet paid for by the studio. Vince sleeps most of the way, and Eric reads scripts. One of them that Ari sent over last week is actually pretty good, if Eric can convince Vince to play a father. He glances over at Vince, stretched out in his seat with a mask over his eyes, wearing a ratty T-shirt, torn jeans, and flip-flops. He still looks like a kid himself sometimes, but Eric knows he’s got this in him. He makes a note to call Ari when they land.  
  
They hit the ground running, off first to a quickly-added live stint on TRL, where they meet up with Shauna and Vince gets about thirty seconds of total air time. He gets a question about filming the Kanye video, then one about working with Cameron. A couple of girls in the audience scream “Vince we love you!” and he laughs and acts embarrassed by the attention, but Eric can see he’s pleased. Eric’s actually pleased — the whole thing goes off just perfectly.  
  
“How much time do we have?” Vince asks as they’re riding down in the elevator toward the limo. Eric looks over at him, sees him lick his lips, and smirks.  
  
“Not enough for that,” he says. “We’ll go to the hotel after Letterman, but right now, we gotta get you a suit.”  
  
“A suit, really?”  
  
Shauna says, “It’s more than just a suit, Vincent, you’ll see.” She taps her Blackberry. It’s a big weekend for her, with two clients in the film, both in New York at the same time. “Call me if you have problems, OK? I’ve gotta meet Aaron, but I’ll see you at CBS.”  
  
They see her off, then hop into the car and head to a very small clothier on Fifth, where a suit is waiting, like she promised. It’s a full suit, but no tie at least -- thank God, because Eric would never get Vince to wear that. This is just a pair of tailored dark slacks with beautiful, thread-thin silver pinstripes and a silvery-blue shirt that’s tight in the chest and loose in the collar and terribly, terribly sexy. The jacket, which matches the pants, is almost an afterthought. Vince tries it on and turns to Eric, holds his arms out a little. “I look pretty gay, huh?” he says.  
  
He does, but Eric’s not going to say it, because he wants to believe that he’s the only guy in the world looking at Vince like this. Somehow, women don’t feel like the same kind of competition. “You look pretty thin,” Eric says. “You’re gonna start rumors that I don’t feed you.”  
  
Vince smirks. “You don’t,” he says, a fake whine. “When was the last time you had dinner waiting for me?”  
  
“When was the last time you worked a full day that I didn’t, asshole?”  
  
Vince put a hand over his heart. “Oh, man, starving me and now being abusive,” he said.  
  
“Yeah, tell Letterman that tonight.”  
  
“That’ll get some headlines,” Vince says. He turns and looks at himself in the mirror again, which gives Eric leave to check him out one more time. He buttons his collar, then unbuttons it again.  
  
“You look fucking hot, Vince,” Eric says, quietly but certainly, and he watches Vince smile in the mirror.  
  
“Yeah, all right,” he says. “Let’s go.”  
  
They step out of the store and their car isn’t there quite yet, and for a minute, just for a minute, Eric’s actually back in New York. The streets are busy and crowded, five different cars are honking, the air has a mixed smell of exhaust and sewer and heat and body odors, good and bad. He’s short here in a different way than he is in L.A.; there, it’s an aesthetic problem, whereas here it’s a practical problem. He could take a step and lose sight of Vince completely. He reaches out and grabs his hand, the first time he’s ever done that anywhere, and though he thinks instantly about the possibility of cameras, he doesn’t pull away. They stay that way until they duck into their car.  
  
Vince rubs his back as they pull away from the curb, and Eric looks over, a little confused. “Since we’re only here a few days, let’s just stay uptown.” His hand makes calming circles, and Eric realizes he still thinks Eric’s upset about the city, about being here without his mother. In truth, they’ve been so busy he’s barely thought about it since landing, which has been a relief.  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “Sounds like a plan.”  
  
Vince, in his new suit, is a hit on Letterman, and they go right from there to the hotel, where they order in and go to bed kind of early. They get up at eight the next morning to start another day of press availability at another, different, expensive hotel. Eric stays outside for most of the interviews, not wanting to make it any easier for these reporters to tell a story that isn’t about the movie, but it starts to drive him a little crazy that he can’t hear what’s going on. He’s Vince’s manager, after all, he should be in there, listening, knowing what they’re up against. If Vince is getting backed into a corner by these reporters, if all they’re going to see out of this is more stories about their relationship, Eric should know. So he goes in and takes a seat by the windows, where he’s not easily in the reporter’s line of sight, and listens as the interviews go on. Vince is a pro, and glides through everything without difficulty, even though almost every reporter tries to bait him into getting off on a tangent about Eric or his sexuality. Most of them give up pretty quickly, but a few are more tenacious; some seem to be there for no reason other than the opportunity to talk to Vince about being gay. Shauna nearly loses her temper with the girl from  _The Village Voice_.  
  
“You’re originally from New York, right?” she asks.  
  
“Queens,” Vince says.  
  
“Both you and your partner still have family here, right?”  
  
Vince doesn’t even blink. “My mother still lives here, I’ve got family all around,” he says.  
  
“And that’s got nothing to do with the movie,” Shauna says, but the reporter just tips her head.  
  
“Our readers appreciate a little local color,” she says. “Do you two make it back here pretty frequently?”  
  
Now Vince sighs, just lightly. “I appreciate the local angle,” he says, his tone almost apologetic, “but I don’t discuss my personal life.”  
  
“Except at the Golden Globes in front of millions of people.”  
  
Vince frowns. Eric’s leaning against the wall near the entryway, and his heart is pounding just a little. Please, he thinks, please don’t get mad and storm out. Please ride this out. Vince opens his mouth, closes it, takes a breath, then says, “Is there anything about the movie you’d like to talk about?”  
  
After that reporter leaves — with a glare at Eric on her way out — they’re done with print reporters. Vince lays his head on the back of the couch and sighs. “Glad that’s done,” he says, and Eric agrees.   
  
“You’re not done,” Shauna says. “You’ve got a fitting in an hour.”  
  
Vince groans. “Can’t I just wear the new stuff? I mean, without the jacket? It’s The Daily Show, Shauna, not Meet the fucking Press.”  
  
“Honey, I am not putting you on TV in something you wore yesterday. Do you understand how that makes me look?”  
  
Vince looks over at Eric, and he shrugs. “Maybe she’s right, Vin,” he says.  
  
“Oh, come on,” Vince says. He closes his eyes, and Eric thinks he really does look tired. It’s been a long day. But he doesn’t want to leave anything to chance, leave any detail undone. “I wish all the reporters who think we’re such a scandal could come in and see this lovely domestic scene,” Vince says, sitting up and rubbing his face. “The two of you ganging up on me.”  
  
“I’m not really taking a side,” Eric says.   
  
Vince looks up at Shauna. “See? E says I don’t have to do it.” Shauna frowns. “What if, what if you just have them send me a different shirt? And I won't wear the jacket. It’s gonna be better if I get a nap than if I get a new suit. Trust me.”  
  
Shauna exhales in her best fine-but-don’t-say-I-didn’t-tell-you burst. “OK, OK, I’ll get something sent over. But you’re gonna wear it and you’re gonna love it, all right?”  
  
“I already do,” Vince says, and he stands and kisses her cheek before he walks out, toward the suite’s bedroom. These rooms are really made just for interviews, but Eric isn’t going to argue that with Vince, not right now. Instead, he paces around a little, waiting for Shauna to look up, and when she finally does, he doesn’t know what he wants to ask her. He feels like he’s been outside of the whole process this time.  
  
“He’s doing fine,” she says. “They’re eating this shit up.”  
  
“He’s not even saying anything exciting,” Eric says.  
  
“That story about the cat on set is a gold mine,” Shauna says. “I bet we can get that to run all over this week.”  
  
Eric shakes his head. He doesn’t understand how the press works; maybe he never will. He’s been assuming there was no way this could all go well, and maybe it still won’t; maybe every other word will be something about his and Vince’s relationship, and Vince’s reluctance to discuss it, and how it’s horrible and wrong and whatever stupid bullshit people can come up with. But maybe people will look past it and talk about the movie. Maybe people will just go see the fucking movie, and Eric won’t have to worry so much.  
  
Shauna looks back down at her Blackberry. “Maybe you should think about a nap,” she says.  
  
He could argue, but even hearing the word makes him yawn, so he just nods. Eric finds Vince in the bedroom already stretched out, face-down, on top of the covers. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes off his shoes, then lays on his back. Vince puts an arm over his chest without opening his eyes, and Eric’s not even sure if he’s awake or if it’s just a tender habit. Those reporters ought to see this, he thinks, we’re just a boring old married couple, and he kisses Vince’s shoulder gently before he closes his eyes.  
  


* * *

  
  
Shauna gets them up in plenty of time to get to Stewart’s studio, where they tape the show around 5. Jon Stewart comes back and hangs out with them in the small, empty green room for a bit before the show while one of the “reporters” is warming up the crowd. That’s cool; he’s just as funny in person as he is on the show but he’s also nicer, somehow, older and more serious. Eric likes him in part because they’re about the same height, and for once Vince looks like the freak in the room.  
  
Stewart tells him they’ll be on in about fifteen minutes, and Vince nods and thanks him and so does Eric, and they all shake hands. After he leaves, a make-up girl comes in and touches Vince up, and Shauna excuses herself to call someone back from the hallway. Vince is wearing the new slacks and the new shirt and he still looks fucking hot, though he also seems a little nervous. That’s not a good way for him to start an interview, but Eric can’t think of how to diffuse the tension with the girl in the room. Finally, after she leaves, he just goes with Vince’s usual solution for everything: physical affection. He sits next to Vince on the couch and takes one of his hands. Vince looks over at him, a curious expression on his face. Eric isn’t going to kiss him and risk messing up his make-up, but he does smile and draw the hand up, kisses one of Vince’s knuckles.  
  
“What was that for?” Vince asks, not unhappy, still just curious.  
  
“Good luck,” Eric says, and Vince smiles.  
  
He does great in the interview. He’s funny, he keeps up with Stewart, and he talks about the movie right up front. But he also goes off-topic, and though Eric knows he should be holding his breath, he’s smiling through it. Smiling to hear Vince talk about the two of them being together and how it’s good, how it’s just — normal, cool, nothing to be ashamed or worried about, and how it’s not a story at all to them. “It’s just my life,” Vince says, and Stewart, class act like always, is supportive and congratulatory. The whole interview goes off perfectly. Eric starts to see how, maybe, they can co-exist with all of this attention, how the news about them isn’t stifling the news about the movie. He feels relieved. When Vince comes off stage Eric does kiss him, not concerned about the make-up or anyone who might see.  
  
“I think it went OK,” Vince says, and Eric laughs.  
  
“Yeah, I might even buy a ticket myself.”  
  
The rest of the trip goes just as quickly. Vince coasts through the rest of the interviews. His talk with Stewart seems to have loosened him up, so while he still doesn’t widely discuss their personal life on camera, the phrase “my partner” does slip in a few times, and Eric doesn’t care. In fact, it makes him feel, suddenly, more secure, hearing Vince acknowledge everything in front of the cameras and the crowd. It hits him on their third day in New York that he isn’t even worried about the movie anymore. He doesn’t care — well, he cares, but not as much as he used to, about what happens. They can blame it on him, they can blame it on the two of them together, whatever. Whatever. Eric knows Vince is gonna stick with him through anything. He believes it. Vince is his family.  
  
That afternoon, Vince goes to tape Conan with Shauna and Eric says he’ll meet them there, then gets a cab out to Queens. He gets out in front of his mother’s house — his house, now, the house he owns, and stands in the street, looking up at it. Next door is Vince’s house, and though he glances over he doesn’t linger in the street because he doesn’t want Vince’s mother to see him. He’s not sure he can take a confrontation with Rita Chase today.  
  
The front door opens as easily as always with the key he’s been carrying the whole time he was in California. Inside, the place is pretty cleaned out. The furniture’s still there, but all of the knick-knacks and personal items, the photos that used to line the walls, the incomplete set of wedding china in the kitchen cabinets, even the romance novels his mother kept stashed in the magazine holder by the couch, that’s all gone, boxed neatly and shipped to L.A. a few months ago, where it’s living in temperature-controlled secure storage. Eric walks through the empty halls, stops in his bedroom, where even the bed, at his order, is gone. That was sappy of him, he realizes, but he doesn’t want anyone else sleeping in it, doesn’t want his cousin’s kid putting her teddy-bear sheets on the bed where he and Vince slept together for the first time. Not the first place they had sex, mind you — someone would have to track down Vince’s brother’s car for that, or maybe the recliner that was in his basement for a while — but the first place where Vince spent the night with him, even though things were supposed to just be cool and casual back then. Eric’s been in love with Vince since he was 15, maybe even before that. He’s been in love with him longer than he lived in this house, longer than he knew his own father. Vince really is his family, always has been, probably always will be.   
  
Knowing that, he’s not sure why it’s so hard to give this place away except that it feels like the last standing monument to a family life he wasn’t done living. He wasn’t done being someone’s son, not yet. He wasn’t done having a place to come home to.  
  
It’s not like he’s homeless, though; it’s not like he doesn’t have someone to love him. And he remembers his mother, he was close to her, she knew he loved her and he knows she loved him. He doesn’t need the smell of this place — the same, the same, it’s still the same, somehow, even without her dresses to carry the laundry soap scent and her books with their vague dusty dryness and her cooking, always a little past done — to remind him of his mother. He has her things, he has the sound of her laugh in his head. He has her eyes.  
  
He tells himself that selling the house, particularly if it stays in the family like this, won’t be giving away the memories within. He’s not losing his mother’s presence — there’s enough of that in her things. Maybe he just needs to find a better place to put them than locked up in storage: a home of his own. That might make him a sap, too, but Eric doesn’t care. He misses his mother. He misses the times they hadn’t even had, yet, misses the conversation they were going to have on a day like this, over coffee in the living room, when Eric would have told her about Vince and she wouldn’t have been surprised. Vince is a good actor, but Eric’s never been good at hiding things, particularly from his mother.  
  
Standing there in the hallway, looking up and down at where the wall paper has faded, leaving bright rectangles where all of her pictures used to hang, he knows she was proud of him, and it doesn’t make him miss her any less, but it doesn’t make him miss her any more. He taps the big rectangle at the center, where their last family portrait, taken for church when he was about 11, used to hang, and then he walks to the front door without looking back or saying a word.   
  
He locks the door and then, after a pause, pushes his key through the mail slot and walks back to the corner. He catches a cab and requests the hotel, and on the way he texts Vince to let him know where he is. Then he calls his aunt.  
  
“Have Darren call me Monday,” he says. “I’ll be back home by then, we can get the paperwork together. The house is his.”  
  
After he hangs up, he realizes he called California home, but he doesn’t feel bad about it at all.  
  


* * *

  
  
Vince doesn’t ask him about his trip to Queens, and Eric doesn’t mention it, because he doesn’t want to bring up Vince’s mother. He does ask, however, if Vince would mind if Eric brought a few things from home into the house in L.A., and Vince leans back on the couch and says, “I was thinking about that.”  
  
Eric raises an eyebrow. “About redecorating?”  
  
“About the house. We should probably talk to Marvin.”  
  
Eric sighs. “You wanna move or something?”  
  
Vince shakes his head. “We should get your name on the title, or the deed — thing. Whatever.”  
  
“My name?” Vince nods. “I don’t own this house.”  
  
“But you should,” Vince says. “I want to share it with you. Everybody knows about us already, let’s just, let’s make it official. More official, whatever.” He looks up through his lashes. “You should have a home that’s yours.”  
  
Eric smiles just a little. It’s a beautiful gesture, and while it’s typical of Vince to think something can be fixed with money, Eric’s genuinely touched. “You know what, you don’t have to put my name on anything,” he says. “Just let me hang a few pictures.”  
  
“You’re sure?”  
  
He nods. “But when we get our second home in Aspen, you can put my name on that, no problem.”  
  
Vince grins. “This movie better do pretty well if you’re already planning a second house.”  
  
“It’s gonna kill,” Eric says, and he means it. He really thinks it’s gonna do fine.  
  


* * *

  
  
And, unlike everything else that year, Eric’s right.  _Nightfeeders_  opens right on pace with expectations, taking in the second highest gross for the July 4th weekend, right ahead of  _Transformers_  but behind  _Spider-Man 2_. Eric figures that’s a pretty awesome achievement for a movie without any comic-book heroes or robots, and Ari agrees. The studio is ecstatic, and they send Vince flowers and, after the movie holds the box office lead for a second week, a new tricked out Ferrari, black with a shiny dark gray trim, very vampire-like, that Eric finds a joy to drive. They’re already talking sequels.  
  
Photos of Vince and Eric on the red carpet at the premiere make the rounds of the Internet and the cable news shows, and now that the movie’s come through, Eric finds the attention kind of flattering. The paparazzi have backed off some, having discovered they really are just boring guys, apparently, so they’re once again free to move about the city without too much worry over causing a traffic jam or an accident. Life is good.  
  
Life gets even better once Ari gets Vince signed for the movie Eric read on the way to New York. They go to his office, and Ari says, “I can get you probably seven on this one, since it’s got a smaller budget, but we should try and wrap it up this week, get it announced on the back-end of Nightfeeders.”  
  
Eric says, “Fuck you, we’ll sign when you get him eight, and as a producer I want a say in the director.”  
  
Ari stops and stares at him for a second, and Eric can’t figure out exactly what’s going on until he says, “Welcome back, E.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You haven’t yelled at me in six months.”  
  
“That’s not true,” Eric says.  
  
“Fine, but it’s been at least three since you put your heart into a fuck you,” Ari says. “It’s good to have you back, that’s fifty percent less harassment that Lloyd will have to face every day.”  
  
“No sexually harassing my boyfriend, Ari, remember?” Vince says, and he laughs and grips Eric’s shoulder. “He did good with this movie. We should all be happy, now, not fighting.”  
  
“Hey, last thing I want to do is fight with you or your boytoy,” Ari says. “In fact, I’m thinking soon we’re gonna go global with the Murphy Method. No, seriously, after this opening, I’m gonna suggest all of my clients plug themselves in on their managers’ cocks.” Eric laughs in spite of himself. “If that’s what it takes to be a star, baby, then that’s what we’re gonna suggest. Full service fucking agency.”  
  
“Literally,” Eric says, and Vince squeezes his shoulder, keeps his hand there through the rest of the meeting. The touch doesn’t bother Eric at all; in fact, he likes it, now, has even started to count on it a little. When they go to lunch with the guys, he expects Vince’s arm to find its way around his shoulders by the end of the meal. When they walk the red carpet at another film’s premiere, Eric isn’t surprised to find Vince pulling him along with a hand on the elbow or a touch on his lower back. He leans close to kiss Vince when he climbs out of the car for an appointment, doesn’t lean away when Vince whispers to him at a club or a restaurant, and he stops trying to fend off Vince’s often-wandering back-seat hands. He goes with it.  
  
Margot, who he sees once a week, says this is a sign of improvement, that he’s learning to trust Vince and to relax into his own feelings. That he’s ready to allow himself to be happy again. “Do you feel better?” she asks.  
  
Eric thinks of everything the last few months have brought to him, from the shock of coming out to the now-comfortable routine romance they’ve settled in to. “Yeah,” he says. “I really do.”  
  
What he actually feels like is a grown-up. It’s hard to explain to anyone what he means by that, really, because the automatic question is, What did you feel like before? Eric doesn’t have a good answer to that, not really; he’s felt like an adult for a long time, maybe since he turned thirteen and started handing over part of his paycheck to help with bills, maybe since the first time he got served in a bar or bought cigarettes or condoms, or moved out on his own. All of those were markers of adulthood, sure. Even Vince laughs when Eric says it. “E, you’re like the most grown-up person I know,” he says, handing over a beer.  
  
Eric shrugs and takes the beer, decides just to let the topic drop. “I know,” he says. He really doesn’t have the words to describe the transformation.   
  
Vince keeps looking at him curiously, and he pokes Eric’s thigh with his toes, even mutes the television. “Tell me,” he says.  
  
Eric sighs and rubs his neck, takes a sip of his beer. There’s so much to say, he thinks, but — there’s also so much time. A lifetime ahead of them. He really believes that, he’s going to let himself trust in it. He turns to Vince, puts his hand on his cheek, looks at the ring on his finger. “It’s like the difference between playing house,” he says, watching Vince’s eyelids flutter lower, “and coming home to someone.”  
  
Vince smiles, a small, tender smile that Eric appreciates. “I like you coming home to me,” he says.  
  
“Yeah, me too,” Eric says. “I’m kind of getting used to it.”  
  
“Good,” Vince says. He reaches for Eric’s beer, sets it on the coffee table, and then draws Eric close. “Because this is the way it’s going to be.”


End file.
